


A Bad Death Eater Gone Good

by writing_as_tracey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_as_tracey/pseuds/writing_as_tracey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Voldemort won and Harry lost. Life under Lord Voldemort’s rule isn’t what the Purebloods thought it would be… so a half-baked plot to twist time to save their sorry hides is concocted. But will it work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Work-In-Progress.

A Bad Death Eater Gone Good

Kneazle

**

 _A lie told often enough becomes the truth._  
  
Lenin (1870 - 1924)

**

**PROLOGUE: THE LIE**

**

**Flint Castle. 2012. Early evening.**

 

            Draco Malfoy twitched as the screams started again. Of course, it was rather unseemly that the leader of the Legion would even _think_ about twitching when someone screamed.

            Or was raped.

            Or eaten by werewolves.

            Or, you know, ripped apart by unstable, volatile magic that their Lord and Saviour Voldemort seemed to conveniently forget he was capable of.

            Like, every day.

            In fact, Draco Malfoy had developed a nervous twitch that he was _sure_ his deceased Godfather, Severus Snape, would have beaten him bloody and blue. As a rule, Malfoys certainly did not bow down to other wizards; and they certainly did not develop a nervous twitch that would give them away.

            However, the nervous twitch wasn’t just a by-product of Draco’s thought process and worries for the poor victim whose scream had suddenly stopped—rather, his nervous twitch was a result from the near-death _Crucio_ Voldemort tortured him with three Christmases ago.

            When Draco remembered that night—which wasn’t often, if he could help it—he would vividly remember the metallic taste of his blood, the creak and cracks of his bones popping and breaking under his writhing, and the pain in his throat from screaming himself hoarse. When Draco remembered the reason as to why the leader of the greatest dark army was on the ground crying and shivering from a bout of Crucio, well… Draco wanted to twist pretty, little kitties’ necks in. That was all because he was tortured for not bowing deeply enough to appease Lord Voldemort.

            _Bowing deeply enough_.

            “Fucking ugly freak,” muttered Draco ungratefully, before he abruptly twisted on his heel and darted his eyes back and forth the dark hallways in Flint Castle.

            It really wouldn’t do to have a house elf or spy overhear that. It was what got his mother killed years ago.

            Actually, now that Draco thought about it, what got most of his Slytherin year mates killed was when Potter was imprisoned and the Mudblood—no, _Muggleborn_ —executed a few years ago. Slytherins were usually good at self-preservation, but then again most were born with a silver spoon in their mouths. They expected a certain standard of living, which Lord Voldemort promised them.

            And never received.

            Draco forcefully removed such treacherous thoughts from his mind as he approached a dark corridor. It was the only path to this part of the chilly, old Flint Castle, illuminated by hanging scones and a few flickering torches. The place looked positively primeval, with rough stone, all unevenly placed to make a fortified wall. There were no windows, no tapestries, no markings or decorations.

            It was how all the Death Eaters knew that this corridor would lead to their esteemed Lord: he liked treasures and tokens but preferred them only in his throne room and nowhere else. The display was for his pleasure and his victims’.

            Two guards in dark Death Eater robes and the porcelain mask nodded at Draco in greeting, silently opening the heavy, dark wooden doors to the wing of the Castle.     

             The large hall the Dark Lord had taken from the Flints—after he killed Marcus and his family—was the original Great Hall from the early 12th-century. The rectangular room easily held the higher-ranking Death Eaters as well as several mid-level management and supporters. The end of the Great Hall held a grotesque parody of a throne, made singularly of the bones of Voldemort’s most resolute enemies. Apparently the Mudbl—Muggleborn’s head made part of the throne’s arm.

            At the centre of the rectangular hall was a cleared space at the foot of the throne for Voldemort to watch his enemies—and for kicks, his Death Eaters—be tortured. 

A meeting—torture, actually—was already underway, with their Dark Lord Voldemort watching silently from his throne.

The noise, stench, cheers, and jeers from the more enthusiastic Death Eaters gave Draco cover as he slipped in between his father and his long-time friend, Theodore Nott.

            “You’re late,” muttered Theo, barely moving his mouth and keeping his eyes forward.

Despite having a glaringly obvious empty space between the two, no one seemed to notice Draco’s late arrival; no one was behind them and no one was in front to block the leaders of the Legion and their view of a bloodied young girl, lying in front of the Dark Lord.

“Got caught up in the thing,” answered Draco, his eyes falling on the young girl. He frowned, slightly; she looked familiar, but then again… lots of those the Dark Lord tortured did.

            “Did you find it?” queried Lucius Malfoy quietly. He did his best to keep his voice low; while Rabastan Lestrange, at his father’s right side in line, was sympathetic to their plight, Rodolphus, next to his brother, was not.

Here, Draco paused, looking left at Theo and then right, at his father. Both were dressed in Death Eater robes, but the tailoring and fit of the robes were designed as Imperial uniforms, similar to Draco’s. Being highly ranked, they didn’t wear masks like the lowliest Death Eaters, but wore insignias and tassels. Oh, how the mighty had fallen from scare tactics to brute, uniformed force.

Finally, Draco breathed, “ _Yes_.”

            The two men at either side of the Malfoy heir sighed in relief, a small exhale of breath (no need to call attention to themselves, after all).

            “ _Victorie_!” a wretched man’s voice hollered.

            Draco started, blinking. Where had he heard that name before…?

            Next to him, Theo almost sagged in on himself.

            A part of the Death Eater crowd, directly across from Draco, Theo and the other Legion leaders, split. A tall, skinny man was straining against the invisible bonds that held him back and tethered to the floor. His hair was rapidly shifting colours as he stared at the still form of the young blonde.

            Draco felt bile rise up. Victorie Weasley… and the metamorphagus was Potter’s own godson, Teddy Lupin. They were the only children born to any of the Order of the Phoenix members.

            “She’s dead, mutt,” laughed a familiar voice and Draco twitched. A tall Death Eater stepped out of the line by the prisoner and knelt next to the girl, stroking down her cheek lovingly.

            Teddy roared wordlessly at the man, straining the bonds further. He slid a few feet forward, but the magic held.

            The Death Eater laughed and moved close to the young man, taunting him. “How does it feel to be the last, Lupin? How does it feel to know everyone else is dead and you’re all that’s left of your precious Order of the Phoenix?”

            Teddy bared his teeth in a ferocious growl, snarling, “Uncle Harry’s still alive! Your _Master_ couldn’t even kill him at all, Zabini!”

            Blaise Zabini backhanded Lupin, the force turning Teddy’s head. Blood dribbled down the side of his split lip, but the young half-werewolf, half-metamorphagus did not react.

            “Harry Potter has been a prisoner of the Dark Lord’s for over fifteen years, _Mutt_ ,” replied Zabini evenly, returning to his place in line. “He’s nothing to us.”

            And that was the crux of Draco’s problem. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, was comatose, stuck in a damp and dank prison cell underneath Flint Castle and unable to deal the killing blow to the Dark Lord.

            Of course, those first five years, Draco was ecstatic. His father and friends had come out on the winning side and all was well; his godfather was dead, but then really, the man should’ve known better than to trust Dumbledore.

            In those five years, the Order of the Phoenix tried to form a resistance but they all fell, one by one. No one was eager to help and the masses went with the victor of the Blood War, Voldemort. Death Eaters flocked to his call and many enjoyed the rewards of becoming one of the Dark Lord’s.

The Muggleborn, Granger, was one of the last fighters until Voldemort killed her personally just a few years ago. But by then, Draco would have gone down fighting beside the woman.

Why, you may ask? Why would Draco Malfoy help Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s best friend and the bane of his life?

Simple: being a Death Eater under Lord Voldemort’s reign _sucked_.

The man was a tyrant. And not just a simple, “oh look at me rule the world and cause mayhem and chaos here and there” tyrant, but a psychotic, unpredictable, egotistical, demonic tyrant who would kill someone who made his tea with one too many lumps of sugar.

It wasn’t how Draco Malfoy thought things were going to be. In fact, for most of the original Death Eaters, it wasn’t _at all_ what they thought things were going to be. They were thinking a return to old Pureblood customs, a blockade against the Muggleborns from entering their world (let the Muggles deal with them), and maybe a little Muggle baiting here or there.

They didn’t expect the mass graves; the rapes and brutalisation of their wives, their sisters, their mothers, or their daughters. They didn’t expect to miss how things were when Dumbledore was still alive. When Harry Potter offered hope to the people.

Oh, Merlin, he was turning into a Potterite. A fan of Potters! Another Colin Creevey—Draco stopped thinking. Colin Creevey watched his little brother bleed out in front of him and was then fed to Greyback.

Draco cringed and found himself pitying Teddy Lupin. There was nothing left for the young wizard anymore; his family was dead and the woman he loved was dead. He’d be dead soon, too.

He hoped that someone would make it quick.

Zabini stepped forward and Draco realised it probably wasn’t going to be that quick and then thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

In the middle of Zabini torturing the poor man with his favourite carving knife, who was bleeding worse and heavier than Victorie had, a random Death Eater slammed open the main Great Hall doors, and shouted, “My Lord! It’s Potter! He’s escaped!”

            At the pronouncement, all noise stopped. Everyone was staring at the Death Eater, including Voldemort himself, who was slowly rising from his throne.

            While everyone was staring at the Death Eater or Voldemort, Draco kept his eyes on Teddy Lupin, who summoned enough energy to rise unsteadily to his knees in front of Zabini and his still hand.

            “Harry’s _everything_ to us,” the man garbled out with a bloodied smile, drawing the attention back to him… just as he impaled himself on Zabini’s outstretched and knife-wielding hand.

            And as chaos erupted in the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy slipped out, just as unnoticed as he slipped in.

**

**Some random Welsh countryside. 2012. Really late evening.**

 

Everyone was shouting. They were shouting over each other, shouting at each other and shouting with each other.

            Draco was getting a headache.

            “This isn’t going to solve anything,” he muttered to Theo, who stood shivering beside him. “And why the bleeding hell didn’t you cast a warming charm on your robes?”

            “Forgot to,” muttered Draco’s friend. The man sighed and pulled his wand out to do as Draco suggested. “And I figured nothing was going to come of this anyway. What’s the point of us being here, if even after you said you found the Clock, we can’t decide what to do with it?”

            Draco shrugged. “It was my job to find it, not decide what we’re doing to do with it.”

            Theo snorted.

            “ _ENOUGH_!” raged Lucius, raising his wand, casting a deafening boom that shocked and silenced the group of wizards and witches in the field. “We did not come here to argue. We came here to find a solution.”

            “I thought we had one,” grumbled Henry Greengrass, Daphne and Astoria’s father, from his position across from Lucius. The once tall and strong man was nothing more than a grey-faced, limp-haired man with hopeless eyes. Draco pitied him; his daughters were concubines of the Dark Lord’s and both, in the years since he took them as ‘lovers,’ had failed to produce a viable son. Astoria was already dying, wasting away to skin and bones. No one expected her to live much longer.

            “I rather thought that we were planning on leaving the country,” muttered Nero Edgecombe, a Death Eater who joined after the Blood War and only reaped the benefits for a month before his wife and daughter were given to the werewolves.

            Lucius shot him a look. “Don’t be stupid, man. Wherever we go, our Master will find us.” He sighed. “I tasked my son in finding something... something important.”

            “What was it?” asked someone.

            “The Immortal’s Clock,” answered Lucius evenly.

            Silence reigned.

            “It’s a myth,” Greengrass finally whispered, eyes wide in the dark, his face pale in the flickering torch light.

            “I found it,” argued Draco. “It’s the real thing too—I can feel its power. It’s staggering.”

            “The Clock... what does it do?” asked Isabella Thickenese.

            Lucius looked at Draco, who sighed beside Theo and stepped forward, raising his voice to reach everyone. “It’ll give us a chance. It’ll transport our souls, our memories to a point in the past where we can change things. Change things for the better.”

            A cricket let out a lone chirp.

            “Impossible!” shouted Greengrass.

            “I don’t believe it,” scoffed Thickenese.

            “Inconceivable!” jeered Edgecombe.

            At the last one, Draco turned to Theo and muttered, “I do not think that word means what you think it means,” causing his friend to stifle a snigger. Escapism in films worked for Muggles—and it certainly worked for Draco as well, whenever he could sneak away to watch a film at the Leicester Square Odeon.

            Sighing, the young Malfoy scion stepped forward, out of the circular mass and into the middle of the ring, turning slowly on the spot as he addressed the crowd. “Wizards and Witches; we have been _duped_ ,” he began, his voice low and rumbling. “Our Lord has given us _nothing_ that he promised. We were promised a return to the Old Ways – the days of when we celebrated Nature and Order and Chaos and Death and Rebirth like our ancestors. A promise was given, allowing us to worship our Gods, to celebrate the Equinoxes and our heroes, not those of the Muggleborn’s saints.

            “None of that happened. Instead, we were given death, destruction and hopelessness. We have watched as our homes were taken from us, raided and burned like _we_ were not the conquering victors of the battle. We watched as our mothers, daughters and wives were taken from us and used as playthings for the Dark Lord’s whims. We watched, wizards and witches, as everything dear to us was taken.”

            Draco paused, looking at the hard ground as he remembered the last time he saw his mother.

            Swallowing heavily and with resolve, he continued, his voice rising and falling with passion. “I say _no more_. This is not the world we wanted. This is not the future we envisioned. Call it treason; call it whatever you’d like—but _I will remain in this world we helped create_.”

            “And what do you plan to do?” asked Adrian Pucey quietly. Another old friend of Draco’s from school, only Pucey, Nott, Warrington and Zabini had survived the Dark Lord’s purge of “wasted Slytherin potential, incapable of acting like Salazar’s own”.

            “I plan to use the Clock,” stated Draco, surprising himself as the words left his lips without thought.

Titters and murmurs erupted around the circle at the proclamation.

“I plan,” continued Draco, raising his voice, “I plan to use the Immortal’s Clock to return to a point in time where I was still in school with Potter, Granger and Weasley. I plan to give them—and us—a second chance. To make things right, to make them see and understand what the future would be like if they lost.”

“They never trusted you then, Malfoy, why would they trust you a second time around?” asked Greengrass bitterly.

“Because I’ll give them a fucking reason,” growled Draco, turning to face the man.

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, each thinking their thoughts and muttering quietly to their neighbours and old friends, those who remained. Draco spotted Theo, next to his father, nodding. He too, would return to the past to get another chance to make things right.

“Say you do this, Malfoy,” continued Pucey, thinking hard as he chose words carefully, leaving his mouth slowly. “If you do this, and you help Potter win—how do we know that things won’t be any different for us? Everyone knows that Potter hated the Slytherins and Dumbledore sure wasn’t any help.”

Draco sighed. He had thought of that too. “There’s only one way we _can_ make things different for us, Pucey: by changing. Whatever world we’d create, it would still be better than what we live in now. Our homes wouldn’t be taken from us; our families wouldn’t be torn apart.”

“And in the worst possible scenario, you know where the Clock is,” rumbled a new voice, startling the circle and causing Draco to turn quietly on his heel and bring his wand up in defense.

Rabastan LeStrange stood next to his father, coolly looking at the assembled witches and wizards, all now known traitors to the Dark Lord’s left-hand man. Nerves ran high in the group as they shifted and brought their wands out—not to defend, or fight, as they couldn’t as a group take on LeStrange and win—but to flee.

“Peace, friends,” called Rabastan, as he stepped into the circle and stood next to Draco Malfoy.

 _Peace friends,_ thought the young blond, _I’m sure that’s what Brutus said to Caesar before he and his friends jumped the Emperor_.

“I understand your fears and worries,” continued Rabastan, his voice low and hypnotic, soothing those in the circle. “I, too, agree. This is not the world I wanted to live in.”

Silence descended on the group. One of the Dark Lord’s most trusted advisors was in their camp?

“Prove it,” called out Thicknese, her voice challenging.

Rabastan smiled, his wand pulled out carefully and slowly. “I, Rabastan LeStrange, do so swear on my life and magic, on this day, to prove to my fellow witches and wizards that I do not support my Lord, and do not believe that this is world we should be living in.”

The man’s magic flared up, shimmering in the air around his body and giving him an ethereal glow that dissipated within seconds; but it was enough. Rabastan LeStrange was like them.

“Can we do this?” asked Augustus Pyrate. “Can we really use the Clock, send ourselves back in time and relive our lives?”

“Yes,” said Lucius calmly. “Because we have no other choice.”

“I still don’t think Potter will trust us,” sighed Pucey. “The Slytherins at that time were so terrible to him and Granger. Weasley—well, not so much, he gave what he received, but the other two...”

_“Then you might want to send me back with you.”_

Draco would never admit it, but he shrieked like a little girl at the strange voice. As a unit, the Death Eaters forming the circle turned with their wands out, creating a semi-circle with two rank files, and faced the new voice.

What you must know about the Welsh countryside is that while the land itself is rather hilly, filled with valleys and crevices, some locations are rugged. The location where the Death Eaters chose to meet, in the middle of the Brecon Beacons, while remote, wasn’t necessarily the safest. Fog patches could sweep in suddenly, thick and heavy; visibility would immediately be reduced to zero, a cause with had many hikers plunging suddenly off invisible cliffs. There was a reason that the Muggle RAF chose to train their elite soldiers in the ever-changing environment.

The Death Eaters found this out the hard way. They choose the location because it was as far as they could get from any of the Dark Lord’s fortresses and main holdings; it was also a location that was remote, with no people or villages nearby, and the landscape appealed to the group’s moodiness.

It also served as an excellent cover for spies.

A figure began to move through the thick fog, with gentle breeze helping to sift the cloudy mist away from him. As clouds moved across the bright moon, a shaft of moonlight struck the figure just as he stopped walking, revealing his identity.

Draco sucked in a breath.

Harry Potter, pale, emaciated, wearing nothing more than rags, stood before the Death Eaters.

“Send me back with you,” he said again, his voice raspy for disuse. “Then everything you do, you tell me, will be believed.”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t believe it,” squeaked out Pucey, the first to find his voice.

“Dumbledore was a fool,” replied Potter, the shadows hollowing his sunken eyes. “He kept too many things secrets from us in his final days that destroyed the foundations of the Order later.”

Draco swallowed, again, and stepped forward, breaking from the semi-circle. “Potter, are you sure? We can’t guarantee when we’d arrive back in time. It could be after he’s got a body—it could be in the middle of the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“I’ll risk it,” replied Potter evenly. “Let’s do this.”

**

            Rabastan did the Arithmancy to ensure that by sending their consciousness back in time through the Clock, they would be destroying the fabric of their current reality. It would cease to exist suddenly, or, if Draco and his fellow Death Eaters failed, the reality would be held in some sort of stasis that would break only if they were successful, again destroying the reality.

            Either way, it was a one-way trip.

            The Clock required three drops of blood from each soul, who would be travelling back. There was no set time or way to determine when they would arrive; they just would. For the Clock to work, Rabastan explained that it would destroy their current body, leaving behind only the soul and consciousness for a brief moment before that soul and consciousness would merge with the younger self.

            That proved too much from some of those within the circle, and they backed out of the plan. In the end, only the two Malfoys, Theo, Pucey, Greengrass, Augustus Pyrate, Rabastan and Potter agreed. The rest would serve as focus for the spell and blood binding.

            Each stepped forward to where Draco stood, holding a strangely shaped Clock. At first glance, the Immortal’s Clock looked normal: it was square, a dark mahogany colour, polished to a shine. The glass was perfectly clear and there were no scratches or marks. Behind the glass was a perfectly shaped circle, inlaid with gold filigree and Roman numerals, like a normal analog clock.

            However, below the clock face, instead of a normal swinging pendulum, there was a swinging hourglass. The sand inside of the hourglass reminded Harry of Tinkerbell’s fairy dust; the sand was fine, a pale shade of creamy white that glowed an otherworldly gold.

            Draco, clutching the square clock to his chest, unhooked the latch to the glass plate in front of the clock face with his left hand and allowed his father to slice cleanly across his free hand’s forefinger. Three drops of blood landed on the clock face, staining the white porcelain.

            The others moved forward and did the same. The clock face as a dark red when they finished. Draco shut the glass and latched it. As soon as he did so, there was a soft sucking sound and the blood melted into the porcelain, leaving the clock face once more pure and white.

            Holding the Clock in both hands now, Draco turned it to the back, showing the strange wind-up feature. As he met the eyes of his allies, Draco reached forward and began to wind the clock.

            The winder clicked and creaked at each full turn, gears shifting into place and metal twisting. Suddenly Draco could not wind it anymore, and dropped his hand from the winder.

            The Immortal’s Clock started ticking.

            There was a brief flash of light; a scream of pain; and then the world that they once knew and hated was gone.

            It was up to seven Slytherins and a jaded Gryffindor to save the world.

**

TBC...

**


	2. Ordinary Men

A Bad Death Eater Gone Good

**

 **Paul Smecker** : “... That’s just what we need now: some sensational story in the papers making these boys out to be superheroes, triumphing over evil. Let me squash the rumours now. These two are not heroes. They’re just two ordinary men who were put in an extraordinary situation and they just happened to come out on top. Yes, nothing from our far-reaching computer system has turned up diddly on these two. All we know is what we found out from the neighbours, and the general consensus is, they’re angels. But angels don’t kill...”

\--  Boondock Saints, 1999

**

**ACT ONE: ORDINARY MEN**

**

            “... _Draco? Wake up... Draco..._ ”

            The voice was insistent. It was squeaky. It would loud and high-pitched. Draco Malfoy wondered when Pansy Parkinson managed to sneak into his bedroom.

            Oh, wait. Pansy was dead.

            A younger, higher male voice, one that Draco recognised as his, squeaked out in fear, _Pansy’s dead?!_

            The sharp words rang in his head, amplifying the throbbing pain that was the beginning of a massive chronic headache. Draco groaned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the covers over his head.

Of _course_ Pansy was dead; she’d been dead nearly ten years—she killed herself instead of participating as the entertainment in a Revel.

            _WHAT?_

            That annoyingly high-pitched voice, his younger voice, echoed in his blindingly painful head. So did the strange voice calling his name, ensuring a deep, throbbing ache spread from the middle of Draco’s forehead to the back of his skull. Merlin, maybe someone had hit him over the head?

            “Master Draco! You’s must gets up!”

            _Master_ Draco? Goodness, he hadn’t heard anyone call him that in _years_. Deciding that their advice was sound, Draco cracked open one eye, and then another, and peered around his childhood bedroom at Malfoy Manor in shock and confusion.

            On the other side of the bed stood a tiny green house elf in Malfoy pillowcase, wringing its hands and staring worriedly at Draco.

            Draco stared back, trying to think. Which elf was this? Malfoy Manor hadn’t had any elves since Nagini ate all of them in his seventh year. Finally, it hit Draco. There was a house elf in his room. In his _childhood_ bedroom at Malfoy Manor. Calling him ‘Master Draco.’

            “Gibbs?” queried Draco slowly, blinking at the house elf.

            “Yes, Master Draco?” asked the house elf.

            “Gibbs,” repeated Draco, in the same confused tone.

            “Yes, Master Draco?” repeated Gibbs, the house elf, patiently.

            “Gibbs—”

            “Master Draco, you’s must gets up,” the house elf finally interrupted, done with playing the strange game. “Yous and Master and Mistress are to gets to the Quidditch Cup laters.”

            “The _what_?” asked Draco, frowning. What Quidditch Cup?

            “The Quidditch World Cup, Master Draco,” responded the house-elf, hopping off the bed and waddling its way over to the dressers on the far side of the room. The elf snapped his fingers and a few drawers slid open; a thin cashmere jumper floated out of one drawer, socks and underwear from another, a light undershirt from one more and then a belt with buckle.

            Draco slowly sat up in his bed, staring at Gibbs. Was he talking about the Quidditch World Cup in 1994? Was _Draco_ back in 1994?

            A part of Draco was dancing in joy – the blasted Clock had worked, sending him back in time and before the Dark Lord even had a body – but another part of him was running around and screaming like his head was cut off at the thought of being a fourth year again. It was so long ago – and he and Potter weren’t friends – what if Potter didn’t remember? _Couldn’t_ yet remember what happened in the future?

            _Oooh_ , Draco’s headache throbbed at the final thought.

            “Draco?”

            Looking up, Draco opened his eyes and saw his mother hovering at his bedroom door. “Darling, it’s already gone seven. We must get to the grounds before noon, and you’re still in bed. You said you were going with your father to pick up the Port Key at the Ministry.”

            Narcissia Black-Malfoy looked unfazed, cool and composed in a regal manner. The tall, willowy blonde emulated the best features of the Malfoys in their aloofness but the tenacity of the Black line – after all, she had gone down fighting. Narcissia Malfoy had fought her own sister to the death. It was, unfortunately, her death.

            “Mother,” said Draco, breathlessly. He hadn’t expected to see her – he had almost forgotten the point of the Clock taking them back in time.

            Narcissia rolled her eyes. “Do get up, Draco. Gibbs already has your clothing prepared. Wash up and come eat breakfast.”

            Draco dumbly nodded, certain he looked like a Hufflepuff, and slipped out of his bed on unsteady feet. With uncharacteristic patience, Draco let Gibbs usher him into his bathroom, even taking the small elf’s gentle reminders (“don’t forget to wash yous hairs, Master Draco”).

Once fully dry and dressed, Draco meandered down familiar corridors, framed portraits murmuring their hello’s and good morning’s, sculptures and artwork proudly displayed and not blood-soaked or broken.

The double doors to the dining room were shut – father never did enjoy the hustle and slight bustle of the house elves getting on with their work in the hallways and preferred family solitude, especially at meal times – and Draco hesitated before them.

What was he, a stupid ‘ _Puff_? Slytherins may have a sense of self-preservation, but he needed to be a Gryffindor right now and march right in, tell his father hello and that they needed to break Potter out of his relatives and then demand that his father _not_ take up Muggle Baiting during the Quidditch World Cup – oh, and maybe find some Goblins to lay down a bet of Krum catching the Snitch but Ireland winning, side note – but Draco hesitated.

He hesitated.

Then, he sucked in his breath, pushed the doors open loudly, saw his parents look up from their seats, and smiled broadly and –

“Damn it, Draco, shut those blasted doors!”

“Of course, Father.”

 _Yes, Father. No, Father. Your stupid beliefs in the Dark Lord got us all nearly_ killed _, Father._

Damn it, he was supposed to be a general in the Dark Lord’s Legion (of Dark Nincompoops, seriously), and his thoughts were all over the place. That would not do (thank God Auntie Bellatrix was still in Azkaban).

Draco sighed, sliding into his seat at the table. It was going to be a long summer.

**

            Draco had forgotten quite a lot over the years. Particularly, he forgot the events in the Top Box with the Ministers at the World Cup. He followed his mother and father in, and was immediately surprised by the annoyed look on the Bulgarian Minister’s face; Fudge was finishing his introduction of Harry Potter to the man, but it seemed the language barrier was causing some humiliating, awkward stilted conversation between the three.

            His father sneered at the Weasleys – the eldest, Arthur, sneered back, and Draco wondered if his father was ever that good at acting before. He certainly knew how to keep a blank face, but living under the Dark Lord’s thumb showed Draco his father wasn’t nearly as blank or taciturn as he was previously led to believe.

            As the youngest Weasleys turned to face the newcomers, Draco nodded amicably at Harry Potter first. “Potter,” he greeted neutrally. He glanced over at the bushy-haired companion and nodded politely as well. “Granger.”

He then paused as his eyes swept over the redheads. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Weasleys personally, he just never got along with them. With an internal sigh, he gritted out as politely as he could, “Weasleys.”

At this, Draco missed the confused glance that Harry and Hermione shared, but didn’t miss Harry’s, “Erm... Malfoy,” in response, nor did he miss the young male Weasley’s hiss of, “ _Harry_!”

Well. This was a setback. Apparently, Potter didn’t remember the previous timeline.

As he settled into his seat, Draco frowned, his eyes blank as he stared ahead at the enormous Quidditch pitch and oblivious to the Bulgarian team’s fly-by. Instead, a startling thought made him shiver and nearly weep.

_What if I’m the only one who remembers?_

**

            “I can’t believe you said _hello_ to him!”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake...” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes as Ron continued his rant against Draco Malfoy, who for some strange reason, was _nice_ to her and Harry.

            “Ron, it wasn’t a big deal. He was polite. I was polite,” replied Harry with infinitely more patience than Hermione was currently demonstrating.

            The entire Weasley clan was moving slowly from the stadium seats back to their tent, after the wonderful Irish win, despite Krum catching the snitch. The eldest, Bill and Charlie, were walking towards the back with Mr. Weasley so that they could watch over the younger children. Percy was trying to behave as though he didn’t belong to the large, rowdy bunch; the twins walked together, heads close and whispering, while Ginny walked with Ron, Harry and Hermione – although her patience too, was wearing thin.

“I can’t believe you said _hello_ to him!”

            “Great Merlin, Ron, if you don’t shut up within the next three seconds I will send my Bat-Bogey hex on you!” growled Ginny, finally giving up all pretenses.

            Ron fell silent, into a sulky mope; seeing it, Charlie quickly sidled up to the youngest male Weasley and engaged him in to a conversation about Viktor Krum.

            The debate raged and Ginny was soon drawn in, leaving Harry and Hermione to walk companionably beside each other.

            “You have to admit, Malfoy acting that way was pretty weird,” offered Harry, finally.

            Hermione gave a hum of agreement. “Maybe he fell off his broom, hit his head hard on the ground and had a personality transplant?”

            Harry chortled. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Dudley in disguise.”

            “Well, it would explain how you inhaled dinner earlier,” laughed Hermione. “But, no, I understand what you mean. Something about him was... off.”

            “He was dressed the same,” mused Harry aloud. “But he wasn’t _behaving_ like Draco Malfoy should.”

            “There was no arrogance,” answered Hermione evenly. “He didn’t have his nose up, no snobby tone... oh my God, he was _normal_.”

            Both Harry and Hermione shivered in response.

            “Something is not right with him,” Harry declared. “Do you think he’s been possessed?”

            “If he has, I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” replied Hermione. “That’s the first time he’s ever greeted me by the name and not _mudblood_. I’d be quite happy if he’s being possessed by You-Know-Who.”

            The two shared a quiet laugh, glancing over as the debate between Charlie, Ginny and Ron drew Bill into the discussion, all with loud, raised voices and violent hand gestures.

            “Alright, alright, that’s enough, kids,” interrupted Mr. Weasley, slowing down as they reached their camping tent. “We’re back anyway. You can continue it inside.”

            Harry and Hermione made to enter the tent flap with the rest, but Harry stopped Hermione with a gentle hand on her upper arm.

            “Hermione...” he began slowly, “If there is something wrong with him—Draco, I mean—we’ll keep our eyes on him, right?”

            Hermione frowned, pensively for a moment; Harry could see her thoughts turning inward as she considered it. “Yes,” she finally answered, slowly. “Yes, we’ll keep an eye on him.”

            Harry nodded. “Good.”

            Together, they entered the tent, separating as Hermione went to sit with Ginny and Harry to sit with Ron, who decided to make a fool of himself, acting out with the twins all of Krum’s ‘best of moments.’

            Soon Mr. Weasley was ushering everyone to bed; Harry and Hermione shared a final, hard glance at each other, reaffirming their belief in keeping an eye on Draco Malfoy, and then the tent was silent.

            For a while, anyway.

**

            Of _course_ his father had to participate. Of course he did. Draco could blame the Odgen’s Firewhiskey – he really could, but that was just displacing the blame and he couldn’t do that. His father _wanted_ to go out with Nott and Crabbe and Goyle and Parkinson and swish and flick their wands at the unsuspecting Muggle family who owned the camp grounds, happy to watch them twist and spin in the air.

            Great Merlin, was there ever a time when Draco thought that would be _fun_? That doing something like that was the highlight of a good evening? The now fourteen year old swallowed heavily and fought against his stomach’s rebellion.

            _What an arse I grew up to be_ , he thought, walking calmly through the screaming and frantic crowd of foreigners and nationals alike. The scene was something he was used to – something he once revelled in and took pleasure that he and his Legion were the cause of such panic and chaos – so Draco took his time as he walked towards the forest at the edge of the grounds. He vaguely remembered going in the same direction in his previous life, but such memories were hazy and foggy.

            It didn’t help that his “younger” self was having a hard time reconciling his future memories with his “older” self. It was strange – having two sets of memories, some foggy and distant like a movie he couldn’t quite remember seeing before but _knowing_ he had seen it, to other memories being crisp and clear as though they just happened yesterday. His two personalities and consciousnesses were also fighting in his mind – though, now, his older self had managed to suppress his younger self, mainly through shock and horror of their future actions.

            Oh, this spot seemed familiar, thought Draco as he leaned against a large tree trunk. He was far enough into the glade now that he sounds of screams were muted, but only just. He folded his arms and waited. He remembered: something was going to happen.

            He heard rustling, voices and then the unmistakable grunt of pain that he associated with Ron Weasley.

            “What happened? Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid— _lumos_.”

            A small area of light emerged through the darkness, revealing Ron Weasley lying on the dirty ground, frowning and cursing under his breath.

            “Tripped over a tree root,” the Weasley said angrily, as he slowly got to his feet.

            Draco couldn’t help himself; his younger counterpart had briefly emerged, and Draco remembered the next part of this memory well enough that he was okay with the words that emerged from his mouth. “Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” he drawled.

            In unison, the three Gryffindors turned in the circle of light from Granger’s wand, and lit upon him as he stood against the tree. He turned his head briefly, looking through the corner of his eye at the flashing and bright lights of the Death Eater’s Muggle Baiting.

            “Go fuck yourself, Malfoy,” snarled Ron.

            Ah, yes, the Weasley he remembered, Draco mentally sighed. “Language Weasley,” replied Draco evenly, with a small, dark smile.

            Both Potter and Granger were looking at him strangely, quietly – neither wanted to get involved, but Draco couldn’t have that. He remembered what he said next, from his memories, but he needed to change his modulation.

            “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along now?” he asked, directly to Potter, looking him straight in the eyes. “You wouldn’t like _her_ spotted, would you?”

            As Draco nodded at Granger, a blast that sounded like a bomb sounded from the campsite, momentarily illuminating the foursome in eerie green light.

            In his past, Draco remembered Granger demanding, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” but this time, she merely nodded, silently thanking him for his words of caution.

            Of course, Weasley just had to pick up the slack. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he demanded hotly.

            Draco rolled his eyes. Merlin help him from idiots! “Weasley, they’re after _Muggles_. D’you want to be showing off Granger’s knickers in midair to everyone? I know _you_ have a thing for Granger – Merlin knows that the whole school knows it – but if you don’t care who gets to see her first, hang around... they’re moving this way, and it would give them a laugh.”

            “Hermione’s a witch!” retorted Ron, his ear tips a very bright red, indicating his displeasure at Hermione learning about his crush.

            Draco sighed loudly. “Yes, Weasley, she’s a witch,” he agreed in a very patient, overly enunciated tone. “But if you think that the Death Eaters care about that, you’re mistaken. To them, they’ll think they’ve spotted a Mudblood.”

            “You watch your mouth!” shouted Ron, taking a threatening step forward. Draco saw Potter and Granger share a look, something passing between them – was he changing too much, too soon?

            “Never mind, Ron,” said Hermione quickly, but softly, as she stepped forward and seized Ron’s forearm in a strong, tight grip.

            A loud, deafening bang from just the other side of the trees made all of them reflectively duck, just as several others nearby screamed in fear.

            Draco shook his head. Humans could be so stupid and silly; there were only about six Death Eaters out there and how many wands between the people at the Cup? They could easily overcome them if they wanted to – but they wanted their _heroes_ to fight for them, they wanted _Potter_ to save them.

            “Scare easily, don’t they?” Draco said, in disgust as his eyes moved to where the screams came from. His older, General personality was leaking through now.

            “Why shouldn’t they? They fear what they represent,” answered Potter with a slight, one-shoulder shrug.

            Draco started at this – the conversation had changed. Luckily, before he could engage in a decent conversation with Potter, Weasley struck again.

            “I bet your parents are out there wearing masks, aren’t they?!”

            This time, Draco did see Potter and Granger share a look, as well as a sigh between them.

            “Well... if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I, Weasley?” asked Draco with a chilly smile.

            Ron growled.

            “Oh, come on,” said Granger, with a disgusted look at Ron. “Let’s go find the others.”

            “Keep that big, bushy head down, Granger,” called Draco, as they walked away in a final warning.

            Although Ron tried to turn and engage in another verbal battle or physical altercation, Potter grabbed his other arm and hustled him further into the woods.

            Draco let out a breath he was holding. Well. That hadn’t gone _quite_ as planned, but... something had changed.

            Hopefully, for the better.

**

            _“What was that?!”_

Theodore Nott had never sounded as demanding in his life as he did in that moment. Draco idly wondered if he was channeling the late Pansy Parkinson ( _What? Dead?_ His younger self piped up again, unable to comprehend the future in detail).

            “I don’t know what you mean,” replied the blond.

            “Um, hello?” continued Theo, waving his arm about frantically. “The Gryffindor compartment – Weasley? Granger? _Potter_? _Explain_.”

            Normally Draco would’ve told him to bugger off – but this was his best friend, his _true_ best friend, from the future and current timeline. The two were alone in their compartment, having kicked out Pansy, Daphne, Goyle and Crabbe earlier. Blaise was off doing whatever Blaise liked to do, which suited Draco fine, given what he knew of the teenager and what he was going to grow up.

            Draco mentally sighed. Weasley was just too easy to bait – but Potter and Granger had changed in their interactions with him, and he with them. Draco supposed that he could’ve ignored Weasley, but... he had to have _some_ fun.

            “Well?” demanded Theo.

            Draco eyed his friend, wondering what to say, as he mentally reviewed the earlier situation Theo was referring to.

           

            The compartment door was left open: he could hear Weasley speaking to Longbottom about his Viktor Krum figurine from the Cup.

            “—saw him right up close, as well. We were in the Top Box—”

            Draco seized the moment, entering the compartment with Crabbe and Goyle standing behind him, Theo hiding in the fringes – he was good at that.

“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley,” he said truthfully. After the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, no others were held with the majority of Britain’s players either dead, Death Eaters, or in other countries. And no European nation wanted to be part of the largest sporting event that opened their doors to foreigners, in such a turbulent time.

            “Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” said Harry evenly. “Do you have something to say?”

            Draco had paused, glancing at Potter who sat next to Granger, a book open in her lap.

            “Yes,” answered Draco, surprised at the invitation, pointing at a maroon monstrosity hanging half off an owl’s cage. “Weasley... what is _that_?”

            As Ron meant to shuffle the maroon fabric away, Draco darted forward and seized the sleeve, pulling it.

            He was appalled. “Look at this!” he cried, more for Crabbe and Goyle’s show than anything else. “Weasley, please tell me that you weren’t thinking of _wearing_ these, were you?”

            Draco was flabbergasted. Potter was rich. He should be spoiling his friends; Merlin knew his dress robes for the Yule Ball were nice enough, and Granger cleaned up very well, too. What had Weasley been thinking?

            “I mean—they were very fashionable,” he corrected himself, thinking he’d best salvage his attempt at somewhat polite conversation (Potter had invited him to speak, didn’t he?). He mumbled, as he finished, “In about eighteen ninety...”

            “Eat dung, Malfoy!” shouted Ron, cleverly, his face the same maroon colour as the dress robes. He reached out and snatched back the fabric from Draco’s grip.

            Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter.

            Draco bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing – maroon blush covering Weasley’s face clashed terribly with ginger hair. Instead, he turned to Potter, who sat quietly with Granger, both looking at him strangely.

             “So... going to enter, Potter?” Draco asked. _Please, please know what I’m talking about. I don’t want to do this alone. Where did everyone else_ go _?_

            “Where are you talking about?” snapped Ron, interrupting any answer Potter might have said.

            Draco sneered at the redhead, his attention diverted from Potter and Granger. “ _Are you going to enter_ , I asked,” he repeated. “I suppose _you_ will, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know... you’d be able to afford some modern robes if you won...”

            “You can either explain what you’re on about or leave, Malfoy,” said Granger, her eyes back on the page of her textbook, which Draco saw was _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_.

            Draco’s pale face went a little paler, catching Potter’s attention.

            “All right there, Malfoy?” asked Potter casually, as he leaned back against the seat, stretching his arms above his head and completely at ease, demonstrating he didn’t fear a wand retaliation.

            “Don’t tell me you don’t _know_ ,” Draco almost pleaded, wholly aware that once upon a time he said those exact words but gleefully and maliciously instead.

            With Potter’s strangely focused green eyes on him, Draco found himself unable to continue speaking.

            “I don’t know,” answered Potter.

            Draco swallowed, muttered, “Let’s get out of here,” to Crabbe and Goyle, and turned away from the four in the compartment. Theo’s bewildered face met his, briefly, before the Slytherin schooled his features into boredom.

 

            “You didn’t utter a single _Mudblood_ at Granger, or a _Scarhead_ to Potter,” ranted Theo, still waving his arm about. “You were almost _pleasant_ to them, Draco. PLEASANT!”

            “Theo,” said Draco, catching the teenager’s attention. “What would you say if I told you that my consciousness time travelled from the year 2012, in which I came from a world where I was the Dark Lord’s lead General in the war against Muggles and... undesirables? A world in which Potter lost against the Dark Lord, where the leaders of the Light fell and the world that we though the Dark Lord would create was nothing more than an illusion that he created to turn us Death Eaters into loyal, pathetic sheep?”

            Theo was staring at him strangely. In fact, Theo was staring at him like he lost his mind, which, in Draco’s mind, meant that Theo _didn’t remember_.

            When the silence stretched on, Draco barked out a strange, hollow laugh and said, “Just kidding. Honestly, Theo, did you think I was ever that creative in coming up with a story like that on a whim? Merlin, don’t be stupid. I thought to lull Granger and Potter into a sense of security before doing something to them.”

            “Right.”

            Theo didn’t look convinced. Then again, Draco didn’t _feel_ convinced either. Fuck. This was going to be harder than he thought.

**

            Moody was still as scary as fuck. The creepy revolving eye that could see through invisibility cloaks and doors and desks made Draco shiver; hell, it made him shiver whenever he had to enter the Ministry and he saw Moody’s fake eye watching him.

            He could feel that eye on him now—watching, waiting for him to do something wrong so that he could get into Potter’s good graces... damn, since when were Death Eaters good Defense teachers? He kind of didn’t want to be rid of Crouch just yet, so he couldn’t say or _do_ anything that would tip the man off. Not when he was corresponding daily with his evil pen pal, the Dark Lord.

            Luckily, Blaise Zabini proved that he was an able, wonderfully stupid Death Eater in training while the Slytherins crowded with the other three houses in the Entrance Hall before dinner.

            “Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

            Draco watched from his vantage point a few students away from Blaise, next to Theo, as Weasley, Potter and Granger turned to face the shouter.

            Blaise stood there, looking disgustingly pleased with himself.

            “What?” retorted the redhead angrily.

            “Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” oozed Blaise, holding up and shoving the front page of the evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ at the trio. He continued to speak loudly, drawing attention from everyone around them.

            He read the article aloud, entering his own comments here and there:

            “Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley.”

            “It’s almost like he’s a nonentity!”

            “You call that a house?”

            “Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

            Draco seriously felt like smacking his head against something. Blaise was supposed to be one of the Dark Lord’s best and brightest? _Really?_

            Weasley was shaking in fury, his face a splotchy red. Draco remembered he never did well with crowds – oh, wait, wasn’t this the memory when Moody/Crouch turned him into a ferret? Oh, he didn’t want that happening again. Ever.

            “Get stuffed, Zabini,” snapped Potter, turning to his friend. “C’mon, Ron...”

            “Don’t you stay with the Weasleys in the summer, Potter?” smarmed Blaise, his eyes narrow and glittering darkly in the flickering torchlight. “Your Muggle relatives that _filthy_ that you can’t just wait to get away to the disgusting hovel the Weasleys live in? Tell me, is Weasley’s mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?”

            Granger made a strange noise in her throat, eyes darting back and forth between Weasley and Potter, as though she were contemplating something, especially when her eyes met his.

            Draco raised an eyebrow at her.

            Granger _smiled_.

            Draco stared.

            Her smile widened.

            Draco, thinking the world might be ending, shivered. When Granger smiled like that – well, he remembered his third year vividly when he finally pushed over her tipping point and she gave him the best right hook he’d ever seen in either lifetime. And the time when he was in Umbridge’s office when she was threatening to _Crucio_ Potter in his fifth year – Granger got that determined little smirk/smile thing going on and the next thing he knew, Umbridge was being treated in St. Mungo’s for mental trauma and physical torture, as well as rape... _by the Centaurs_. Dealt by Granger’s hand.

            Draco slowly began edging away. This was _not_ going to end well.

            “Tell me, Zabini,” began Granger, nearly purring and sounding devious, cruel and completely committed. She ever sounded more Slytherin than any female Slytherin Draco had ever known, except his mother in her most fearsome! “What about _your_ mother? All those husbands of hers, dead within a year of marrying her... rumours are that she poisons them. But it really must be that she enjoys whoring herself out for their money before they die from complete _disgust_ at how _filthy_ she acts as she prostitutes herself out to the highest bidder.”

            The hall went silent.

            Draco’s mouth dropped open in shock. He had _never_ heard Granger speak like that before! Even Weasley and Potter had turned to stare at their best friend in awe and shock.

            Zabini’s dark complexion brightened, slightly, and his hand holding the newspaper fell from in front of him to his side, trembling in anger.

            “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Mudblood,” he spat.

            “Then keep your fat mouth shut,” snapped Potter back, taking a protective half step in front of Granger. “Wouldn’t want some _new_ rumours floating around Hogwarts, would you?”

            Potter and Granger turned as one, ready to enter the Great Hall for dinner; Weasley sneered once at Zabini rather ineffectively, who sneered back, his free hand raising up—

            _BANG!_

            Draco watched as Potter twirled, plunging his hand in his robes in a fluid motion, his wand up and ready to duel and a spell on his lips—

A second _BANG_ boomed in the hall and a voice shouted, “OH, NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!”

Draco immediately began feeling himself up as subtly as he could; he was ridiculously happy that everything was humanoid and where it was supposed to be. Theo nudged him gently, and Draco turned to see his friend’s eyes wide as dinner plates, staring down at the floor.

Shivering on the floor, where Zabini had been standing, was a chocolate-y coloured, strange looking rodent.

“What _is_ he?” a student finally asked in horrified glee.

“I think he’s a muskrat,” answered Granger finally, a surprised tone in her voice.

Moody/Crouch stomped through the crowd, his normal eye locking on Potter as his spinning one focused on Zabini-the-Muskrat. “Did he get you?” the crazy defense professor growled.

“Uh, no,” answered Harry, as bewildered at Zabini’s state like everyone else. “He missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” shouted Moody.

“Leave—what?” asked Potter, flummoxed.

“Not you—him!” barked Moody, and as a collective whole, the group at the entrance hall turned to look at Crabbe, who was frozen in terror. He had been about to pick up Zabini-the-Muskrat.

“I so wouldn’t do that,” Draco heard Granger mutter to Potter. “Muskrats mark their territory... but they also spray when frightened.”

Oh, _gross_ , thought Draco, shivering and moving away from Zabini, tugging Theo with him. He’d seen enough and knew how this would end. He was just grateful it wasn’t him.

“I thought Zabini was supposed to be smart,” muttered Theo as the two slowly edged their way through the crowd to the Great Hall. A squeal of fright and pain from behind them had Draco violently remembering his own “amazing bouncing ferret” circus show.

“He’s an idiot,” answered Draco, just as lowly. “He should know better than to antagonise Weasley like that in front of Potter and Granger, first off; and a good Slytherin knows never to do something like that in public where you aren’t aware of your surroundings. Only humiliate when you can guarantee your own safety.”

“Glad to know that rule of Slytherin 101,” snapped Granger from behind the two, making Draco nearly jump in surprise. Instead, he turned around to look at Granger.

“I think it’s more common sense,” mused Potter aloud, a strange quirk to his mouth.

Weasley was a few steps behind the two, a dreamy look on his face that Draco recognised as his way to remember Zabini the Amazing Bouncing Muskrat.

“Does that mean most Slytherins conduct themselves logically?” queried Granger with that strange smile on her face.

Draco hesitated, wondering how to handle this situation as he, Theo and the Gryffindor three pushed into the Great Hall.

“Only sometimes,” answered Draco, finally. “Most of the time, wizards are completely illogical. But then again, so is human transfiguration as corporal punishment.”

Both Granger and Potter wore startled looks on their face, which quickly eased into contemplation. Theo and Draco broke from the three before anyone noticed, just soon enough to hear Weasley come back down to Earth and say, firmly, “Don’t talk to me. I want to fix that in my memory forever...”

 **

TBC...


	3. Frenemies

A Bad Death Eater Gone Good

**

Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?   
 **Abraham Lincoln**  
**

**ACT TWO: FRENEMIES**

**

            Of course, it had to happen: Potter’s name had to come out of the Goblet of Fire, the poor teenager looked confused and then the school—led by the _Hufflepuffs_ —turned on him (Hufflepuffs! Who knew Hufflepuffs could be so vicious? The Dark Lord should’ve used them to take over the world instead).

            As Draco contemplated his next move, he vividly remembered Potter’s face once Dumbledore called his name earlier that evening. Startled, for sure—confused, then, and finally resigned, like he knew it was going to happen and it was only a matter of time.

            Draco raised his arms over his head and slipped his hands beneath, crossed his ankles and then sighed, staring up at the rocky ceiling of the Slytherin dungeons. It wouldn’t be until after the First Task with the dragon that people believed Potter could win the Tournament (regardless of the fact that Moody/Crouch would be helping and easing the way), but his friends wouldn’t be swayed from the popular opinion until then, anyway. Except Granger, of course, who never left Potter’s side at any point in the timeline. Could that be Draco then too? Could he use this as his stepping-stone into the grace of Potter?

             Doing so would invoke great political strife within the Slytherin contingent, not to mention how much Snape would ride his ass—but then again, Snape _was_ playing for the other team and could possibly applaud Draco for his rather imaginative and inspiring move?

            Draco snorted. Not likely.

            Which still brought him back to the original problem: to help Potter, or not to help Potter—that was the question. Hamlet had a kingdom to take back; Potter had an entire nation to win over. It really wasn’t that different in Draco’s mind, but _his_ role was up in the air.

            If he helped Potter — publicly, now— he was, be completely ostracized by the rest of the Slytherins and probably the school as well, who would wonder what a Slytherin like himself was doing cozying up to two Gryffindors. In addition, said two Gryffindors would probably hex him to Saturday and back again before he could ever get close enough to say “hello.”

            However, if he wanted to do what he was supposed to do – help save the world, then Draco knew there was no other option. He would have to be friends with Potter and Granger. And he had to have _them_ believe he wanted to be friends with him. Hell, he’d _Imperio_ them if he had to (until he remembered that Potter was talented with the Unforgiveable, in both senses: casting and throwing it off).

            Well. There was only one way to go then. And if it meant prostrating himself in front of the Gryffindor two—the smarter two, that is—then so be it. Draco was done with his cat-and-mouse bullshit of trying to figure out why no one else remembered the future by him. It was getting tiring, remembering, and trying to not act out in ways that would fundamentally change things too much before he felt comfortable with actually changing things.

            But that was earlier. Now...

            Now Draco was ready to swallow his Slytherin pragmatism and join the house the hat briefly contemplated putting him in: Gryffindor.

**

            The morning after the TriWizard Champions were picked found Harry and Hermione sitting by the lake and munching on toast. Harry had his arms wrapped loosely around his knees, while Hermione sat with her legs extended and daintily crossed at the ankles, leaning back on her hands.

            After Harry told Hermione what happened in the antechamber, Hermione sighed loudly, shaking her head in exasperation.

            “Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” she said. “The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name...!”

            “But who did put my name in, then?” asked Harry, frowning. He slightly rocked on his rear, tilting his head up to look at the overcast sky.

            “I think Moody might be right, Harry...” began Hermione, pensively. She brought one of her hands from behind, frowned at the sticky grass on it, wiped it off on her skirt, and then brought the hand to her mouth to chew on the cuticle. “I don’t think any student could have done it; they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore’s”—

            “Have you seen Ron?” asked Harry, interrupting instead. He heard all that about the Age Line the night before.

            Hermione hesitated, catching Harry’s eyes. When she did so, he rolled his own in response. He knew the answer before she said anything. “Um... he was at breakfast,” she began slowly.

            “Still thinking I entered myself?” queried Harry in a deceptively light tone.

            “Um... oh, well, no, I don’t think so... um, not _really_ anyway,” continued Hermione slowly.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Isn’t it obvious, Potter? He’s _jealous_.”

            At the strange voice, which was not Hermione’s, both Gryffindors jumped to their feet, wands pointed at the interloper.

            Draco Malfoy stood before them, hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets, and a green and silver scarf wrapped around his pale throat. Hoping to look non-threatening, Malfoy brought his hands out of his pockets and let them dangle at his side, however consciously uncomfortable it was.

            “ _Jealous_?” asked Harry incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, is that it?”

            “Probably,” muttered Malfoy at the same time Hermione jumped in, “It’s always you who gets all the attention; you know how it is, and I know it’s not your fault.”

            Hermione glared at Malfoy briefly before turning back to Harry. “Ron’s got all those brothers to compete with at home, and you’re his best friend, and you’re really famous... he’s always shunted to the side when people see you, but he never mentions it.”

            “One time too many, then?” broke in Malfoy, as he took a step forward.

            “Can it, Malfoy,” snapped Harry, reflexively. “You were doing so well since school started, don’t ruin it for us now.”

            “Oh, _please_ ,” snorted Malfoy, “Like you haven’t heard him flaunting his role in those adventures you’ve had over the years? I know I have.” Malfoy modulated his voice to approximately Ron’s roundish tones: “ _I beat a giant chess set; I’m a great chess player. Harry never beats me! If I weren’t there, we’d never have saved the Philosopher’s Stone. I’ve been down in the Chamber of Secrets—have you? No, I didn’t think so._ ”

            Hermione and Harry stared at Malfoy.

            “Seriously?” Hermione finally asked, her voice dubious.

            “Seriously,” agreed Malfoy, nodding. “Go and ask his older brothers. Or Longbottom. Or Loony.”

            “Loony?” asked Harry dangerously.

            “Uh,” started Malfoy, “Luna Lovegood. Third-year Ravenclaw, friends with the youngest Weasley, the girl. I think. People call her Loony Lovegood because she’s a bit spacey and out there.” Here, Malfoy frowned. “I think some of the older Ravenclaw girls are stealing her things too, because I saw her without shoes last week, outside for Herbology when I was done flying.”

            Harry deeply frowned, trying to picture the girl but failing; he had never heard of Luna Lovegood before; nor had Ginny mentioned her—so how was it that Draco Malfoy knew who the girl was? Yet another point in favour of Malfoy having been possessed or lobotomised at some point over the summer.

            Anyway, that was beside the point. The point was Ron Weasley being a douche and therefore Harry disowned him. He was done with Ron’s attitude.

            “Malfoy,” began Harry tiredly, rubbing his face under his glasses with his hands, “Why are you here?”

            Hermione watched as Malfoy swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat through the motion. His grey eyes flashed with something – determination? – before he finally worked up the nerve to state, firmly, “I believe that you didn’t enter the tournament.”

            Both Harry and Hermione eyed the Slytherin warily. Malfoy had never said anything near positive to the two in previous years and it was only their strange Malfoy-was-abducted-by-aliens theory of theirs that had them questioning the teen’s motives.

            Harry beadily eyed the Slytherin some more, turning to face Hermione with a quirked eyebrow in response. _What do you think_? It seemed to ask.

            Hermione shrugged, turning back to Malfoy. “Malfoy... Draco.”

            At his name, Malfoy startled and looked at Hermione, a slightly panicked expression on his face. Seeing it, Hermione’s lips stretched into a thin, darkly amused smile. It made Malfoy shudder in response, as though he was remembering something he really didn’t want to. “Yes?” he croaked out.

            “Malfoy,” began Hermione, quite seriously. “Were you, at any point this summer, abducted by aliens?”

            Malfoy stared at Hermione in disbelief.

            “Lobotomised?” offered Harry, warming up to the game.

            “Possessed?”

            “Found God?”

            “Inhaled potions you weren’t supposed to?”

            “Had amnesia?”

            “... what are you two _on_ about?” muttered Malfoy, his eyes darting between the two Gryffindors, both which had small grins on their faces.

            “Please,” began Hermione with an eye roll. “You behave politely towards us at the Quidditch World Cup; you _warned_ us about the Death Eaters moving in our directions and tell me to keep my head down; you don’t antagonise us anymore. Personality transplant?”

            “I still like aliens,” argued Harry evenly.

            Blinking, Malfoy soon realised that they were _teasing_ him. In Slytherin, there was no teasing unless it was the result of blackmail; things were rarely down for pure enjoyment. Sometimes he and Nott teased each other, over little things that they only knew about, but nothing like what the two Gryffindors were doing.

            “... time travel?” offered Malfoy finally, wondering if he could segue that into his true story.

            Hermione’s face lit up and she squealed a little. “Oooh, we didn’t think of that one yet!”

            “Good job, Malfoy,” agreed Harry, nodding. “We really should have thought of that one.”

            “Really?” asked Malfoy, completely perplexed. “Why?”

            “We’ve time travelled before,” admitted Hermione, knowingly, with that strange glint still in her eyes.

            “... you have?”

            “Oh, yes, to save Buckbeak. Remember him?” the glint was becoming stronger.

            “... vaguely.”  
            “We might have to reintroduce you two, then,” continued Hermione, blithely ignoring the way Malfoy was turning the colour of sour milk.

            “Possibly,” he agreed faintly.

            “Alright, Hermione, that’s enough,” Harry finally said, interrupting her game. “Leave him alone, he looks like he’s going to be sick. You alright, Draco?”

            The Slytherin mumbled something suspiciously like, “I will be,” or that Harry took, as “I will be.”

            Walking a few steps forward, so that he was next to the Slytherin, Harry slapped Draco companionably on the shoulder and happily said, “Wonderful. Of course, we need to verify that Ron _has_ been acting the way you said he was, and once we have confirmation of that, well... then we’ll talk about you believing I didn’t enter myself. Actions speak louder, you know?”

            Draco mumbled something again, nodding his head, eyes darting between Harry and Hermione and determining Harry to be the safer choice. “Understood.”

            “Great,” agreed Harry with a small smile. “See you in class.”

            Then, he and Hermione walked away, leaving the Slytherin standing by the lake, pale-faced, confused, and most likely, shell-shocked in some form of their handling of the situation.

            “Time travel?” muttered Hermione to Harry as they entered the castle.

            “He was sincere. He believes it fully,” replied Harry. “It wasn’t until he suggested it that I thought he was just playing along or ignoring our Gryffindorish behaviour.”

            “I agree,” said the bushy-haired teenager. “Shall I research into this?”

            “If you have time,” demurred Harry, idly looking down at his nails as they passed near the Great Hall; hearing voices coming from within, Harry glanced that way before mentally reviewing his schedule.

            “I’ll check with Ginny,” offered Hermione, immediately sensing where his thoughts went.

            Harry nodded. “Good. I’ll grab Neville or Fred or George and ask them. See if you can track down Luna Lovegood as well. I want to know who she is and how the hell Malfoy knew about her already.”

            Hermione hummed her agreement. “See you in class, then,” she said, taking off towards the Gryffindor tower.

            Harry watched her disappear before heading to his first class, hands in his pockets and a completely unaffected look on his face; maybe it was time for him to be the person the Sorting Hat saw in him. After all, if Malfoy could do a 180 – then so could he.

**

            A week later, following the announcement of Potter as the fourth TriWizard Champion, Draco came to the startling conclusion that his year mates in Slytherin were stupid. They did not embody the Slytherin code – sly, cunning, and ambitious – and as Death Eaters in the making, they were sorely lacking in all departments.

 _Blaise Zabini was one of those_ , Draco thought, eyeing the teenager with disdain as he stood with his classmates outside the Potions classroom.

Why? Because Blaise Zabini had taken it upon himself to act the way Draco previously did in the past timeline, creating the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges that Draco thought were oh-so-clever (which, they weren’t). What was even worse was that nearly all the Slytherins had bought into the stupidity with the exception of Draco, Theodore Nott, and Adrian Pucey. Had Draco not spent three months panicking over being the only time traveller who remembered the future, he would’ve thought that Nott and Pucey were finally remembering and taking a stand. That, however, was not the case, as when questioned, Nott replied, “It’s rather below me,” in a very condescending tone, and Pucey frowned, and asked, “Who’s Zabini?”

“Like them, Potter?” drawled Zabini as Potter and Granger passed the group to stand with the Gryffindors, opposite the Slytherins. “And this isn’t all they do—look!”

The luminous red letters of _Support Cedric Diggory – the REAL Hogwarts Champion_ changed to green and _Potter Stinks_.

The Slytherins howled with laughter; in the previous timeline, Draco knew that Potter was horribly embarrassed by the situation and Granger’s intervention left her with beaver teeth. This time, however, Potter rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, very clever. You learned to spell, Zabini,” he answered in a clipped tone. “That must have taken you, what? All of last week to figure out?”

The hall descended into silence.

“What did you say Potter?” Zabini asked lowly.

Draco frowned, edging away from the Slytherin group, causing Nott to look at him strangely. Well, no more strangely than his friend had been looking at him since his return to the past.

“I said it was nice to know the Hogwarts educational system can help you improve your language acquisition skills,” said Potter, facing Zabini and staring him in the eyes. “Or were there too many words for you to follow, Zabini? Need Mummy to help you?”

Draco groaned. Even Granger looked surprised by Potter’s outburst, as did the Gryffindor fourth years that were swivelling their heads between Zabini and Potter like a tennis match.

Zabini scrambled for his wand, pulling it out and pointing it at Potter, who remained calm and still. The Gryffindors who were behind him—Patil and Brown—scrambled over each other to Finnegan and Thomas’s side, further down the hallway to avoid the line of fire.

Granger stood near Potter, idly watching with interest as Goyle moved to flank Zabini. She didn’t reach for her wand, making Draco wonder what was going on in their minds.

“Go on, then, Potter,” sneered Zabini. “Draw your wand. Moody’s not here to look after you now—do it, if you’ve got the guts...”

“Seriously?” asked Harry, reaching into his robe pocket slowly. “You’re asking a _Gryffindor_ if they’ve got the _guts_ to do something? Especially one who, oh, Hermione, help me out here, will you? Took on a mountain troll at eleven...”

Granger’s eyes lit up. “Destroyed Professor Quirremort at eleven... entered the fabled Chamber of Secrets at twelve...”

“Defeated a Basilisk at twelve...”

“Survived a _bite_ from said basilisk at twelve...”

“Survived numerous jaunts into the Forbidden Forest...”

“ _Spiders_ ,” moaned Weasley from somewhere down the hallway, causing confusion.

“Saved Buckbeak...”

“Travelled through time to save a mass murderer...”

“Fought off over a hundred Dementors...”

“Oh, and let’s not forget killing the most feared Dark Lord in the past fifty years before I was toilet trained,” finished Potter with a dark look in his eyes, which glittered behind his spectacles. “Now, Zabini... do you really want to _dare_ me to do anything?”

The hallway was silent. The Slytherins were no longer laughing and their faces no longer held the same devious glee they originally had when they pressed their Diggory buttons.

But, Slytherin breeds stupidity, as Draco well knew, and the next thing everyone in the hallway knew, Potter and Zabini had shouted at each other (reminding Draco that Potter desperately need to learn non-verbal casting immediately).

“ _Densaugeo_!” screamed Zabini.

“ _Furnunculus_!” shouted Harry.

When the spells hit – because the aim was precisely for both, so Draco had to give Zabini pointers in targeting, at least – they ricocheted off into separate directions, maintaining their velocity, and hitting Goyle, who bellowed madly and nasally as his hands went to his nose, and Granger, who shrieked and then quietly whimpered.

“Hermione!”

Weasley began to dart forward, to check on his other friend, but Potter got to the girl first, carefully easing her hands away from her face, and watching in pained horror as her teeth began to grow past her chin.

Weasley tried to move forward, closer to Granger, but Potter’s glare had him wilt and meander back to Finnegan and Thomas; interesting, – maybe Potter and Granger learned the truth about Weasley’s bragging?

With Goyle blubbering in the background as angry boils erupted over his nose and upper lip, no one noticed Snape’s approach but Draco, who had watched him glide down the hallway, behind the Gryffindors.

“And what is all this noise about?”

The deadly whisper cut through Goyle’s cries of pain and through Granger’s tear-ridden face, causing the fourth years to turn in surprise and horror at the Potions Master. Suddenly, everyone – the Gryffindors and Slytherins together – began clamouring over one another to explain the situation. Except Draco.

Snape noticed, pointed at him, and said, “Explain.”

 _Oh, shit_.

            “Ummm,” emerged from Draco’s mouth without censor.

            Snape’s expressive eyebrows rose in surprise.

            Malfoys _never_ “um” or “ah” in public. It’s not done. Yet, Draco had done so. Therefore, he was already halfway on the path he hadn’t consciously decided he would take. _In for a knut_ , he thought. _I can sleep in the Room of Requirements_.

            “Zabini taunted Potter with the ‘Support Cedric Diggory’ badges because they have a slur against Potter hidden in the charm work. Potter verbally replied with an insult against Zabini’s intelligence, which led to Zabini drawing his wand. The two exchanged more words before they fired at the same time, their spells hitting each other and then Goyle and Granger.”

            Snape blinked; Draco knew that was bad. He flummoxed his godfather. Then, deliberately looking Draco over from head to toe for any sign of a Confundus, he turned to Goyle and examined his face. It now resembled something that belonged in a book about poisonous fungi.

            Then, he turned to Granger, who was still trying to hide her teeth behind her hands, but clearly failing as her teeth were now past her shirt collar and continuing to grow.

            His eyes turned back to Goyle, and then at Zabini, who was heaving heavily and staring mulishly at his Head of House; then, at Potter who looked bored and unaffected, next to Hermione while he and Snape looked at each other. Finally, Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

            “Draco, escort Goyle to the hospital wing. Granger still has use of her eyes and can follow,” he said, then turned to the fourth years staring at him. “Now, get inside, or I’ll give a weeks’ worth of detentions.”

            The rest of the class scrambled to get inside, following Snape’s billowing robes; Potter was one of the last, affectionately touching Granger’s shoulder before disappearing into the classroom.

            Goyle was still moaning piteously, mumbling, “I can’t see, I can’t see,” every so often while Granger was staring at him curiously.

            “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Goyle,” snapped Draco, drawing his wand and letting a _stupefy_ hit his fellow Slytherin, dropping him to the floor, silent for a change. Granger’s eyes widened – but Draco couldn’t tell if it was horror or delight that caused them to do so.

            Instead, Draco levitated Goyle to float beside him, and then, thinking about it, deliberately cocked his left elbow out to Granger in a courteous manner. She stared at his elbow.

            _Did you? Did you learn the truth about Weasley? Are you going to trust me now?_ thought Draco, looking back at Granger.

            Then, to his shock, Granger stepped forward with her shoulder bag switched to her left side, and she hooked her right arm through his left, glancing up at him from under her fringe.

            “Hohpital?” she lisped.

            Draco struggled not to laugh as his lips twitched in amusement.

            “Thop it,” the Gryffindor cautioned, wagging a finger at him as she spied the movement of his mouth; her upturned smile told him it wasn’t serious.

            Together, they walked with Goyle floating beside him to the hospital wing, silently and strangely, comfortable.

            Madam Pomfrey didn’t quite know what to make of the three of them when they walked in, Goyle floating and Draco escorting Granger without any snide comments. Finally, after rolling her eyes upward (clearly asking Merlin to give her strength), she directed Goyle to one of the beds, draw the curtain around him and then pointed at Granger to sit in the other.

            “Thanks,” Granger said to Draco as he turned to leave. “An’ you were right.”

            “Right?” asked Draco, turning back to face her as she settled onto the mattress, tucking a leg underneath her.

            “About Weathley,” continued Hermione, looking at him with wide, brown eyes. “Harry an’ I belieth you now.”

            Draco left the hospital wing feeling strangely elated by the news.

**

“Okay, Draco,” began Theodore slowly, breathing heavily through his nose, as he tried to make sense of it. “Explain to me again, _why_ you helped Potter out this afternoon? And _why_ you’re not staying in the Common Room.”

Draco shrugged. “What does it mean to be a Slytherin, Theo?”

“Excuse me?”

“What does it mean to be a Slytherin?” asked Draco again. “We’re the house of the ambitious. The cunning; the sly. Was anything that Zabini has been doing lately any of that?”

Theo fell silent, staring at his friend out of the corner of his eye as they made their way slowly through the many hallways in Hogwarts. Theo didn’t know where they were going, but Draco clearly had some indication of where he wanted to go, as he was moving with purpose.

“Are you saying that you stuck up for Potter and Granger because Zabini isn’t the consummate Slytherin?” Theo finally asked.

“No,” answered Draco, sighing. “I mean, that’s part of it. He’s an idiot and if he’s supposed to represent the Slytherin house, I don’t want to have anything to do with him. But, as for Potter and Granger? They’re some of the smartest in our year group – and powerful too. Potter didn’t put his name in, you know that right?”

Theo nodded. “Yeah, you could tell on his face that night.”

“So what’s the point in further alienating him? Obviously someone put his name in there to either kill him, or at least, to have him compete with a bunch of seventeen year olds,” continued Draco, glancing at his friend to see if he was following.

“Diggory’s sixteen.”

He was following.

“Ignoring that,” sighed Draco. “The point is, if I show Potter and Granger that _I_ don’t believe the same rubbish that ninety percent of the school does, I’m in their good books. I made a mistake in first year and now I’m trying to fix that.”

“Mistake?”

“I offered Potter my hand in friendship and snubbed someone he did make friends with at the time. He wasn’t impressed with me,” admitted Draco. “But we met in Diagon Alley first... I just wish I wasn’t so scared and nervous when we met the first time. Did you know we’re cousins?”

Theo gave a half-shrug. “Yeah.”

Draco nodded. “I don’t think _he_ does.”

Draco’s best friend frowned, contemplating the knowledge. “So... you’re helping him out of a sense of Black family duty?”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“Then why?”

“I’m helping him because it’s right. And because I think things are going to change this year – the Quidditch World Cup was the start. And, despite everything, Theo,” he said, stopping in the middle of the seventh floor corridor, “I plan on being on the winning side.”

**

            Life was the shits for Harry once Rita Skeeter’s article came out. Many people in the school shouted comments at him as he would walk by and even Hermione was getting her fair share of attention – whether it was because the male populace suddenly saw her a “a stunningly pretty Muggleborn” or because she was a Mudblood and therefore, fun to pick on.

            Despite that, Harry didn’t really care. He had arranged to speak with Sirius about the entire situation through a Floo call on November 22, and gain some adult experience on how to deal with the petty taunts. Yet, that was minor. The biggest shock had been conferring with Neville and learning that Malfoy was _right_ about how Ron would act when he or Hermione weren’t around. Having it further confirmed by the Twins and Lee Jordan made Harry’s blood boil in furious shock.

            _How dare he? How DARE he?_ Harry thought, a continuous cycle of anger running through his veins. He knew Hermione felt the same; she, too, was shocked by the revelations and strangely, accepting. Perhaps she had a better understanding of Ron Weasley’s psychological failings than Harry ever did, since he did only want to see the best of his friends once they were his friends. His loyalty was quite Hufflepuff.

            But to have Draco Malfoy – his strange, time-travelling-believing-it-so-it-must-be-true Slytherin quasi-friend – tell him something his Gryffindor friends should’ve told him... it was gut-wrenchingly awful.

            But his pity-party only lasted so long and soon he and Hermione were tucked away in the History section of the library (because no one ever went there willingly), bent over their homework and whispering fiercely at each other.

            “Can we trust him?” Harry asked, referencing Hermione and Malfoy’s conversation in the hospital.

            “I suppose so,” agreed Hermione, frowning contemplatively. “I mean, he does seem ridiculously sure he travelled through time. And he’s acting differently. And his name isn’t any different on the Map, is it?”

            “Not that I could tell.”

            Hermione hummed. “We did say that we’d give him a chance.”

            “That’s true,” said Harry, “But is this chance enough?”

            Hermione stared at her friend. “Harry. He blabbed about Zabini to _Professor Snape_. No Slytherin does that. And Parvati heard from Padma, who heard from Greengrass that he’s not even sleeping in the Slytherin dorms anymore.”

            Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Hermione!” he said in gleeful shock. “Did you just _gossip_ with me?”

            “I did not,” huffed Hermione, rolling her eyes, only to catch the strange, hunched-like figure lurking a shelf over.

            Sure enough, giggly twitters began to echo around Harry and Hermione as a bunch of eyelash-batting girls rounded the corner, staring at the same hunched figure.

            “Oh my freaking God,” moaned Hermione, dropping her head on the table and putting her hands over her ears. “He’s not even good looking! They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t even look twice at him if he couldn’t do that Wonky-Faint thing...”

            “Wronski Feint,” corrected a male voice, one that wasn’t Harry’s.

            Hermione raised her head balefully, removing her hands as Draco Malfoy less than gracefully dropped into the free chair next to Harry.

            “The what?” she asked.

            “Wronksi Feint,” sighed Harry, “Honestly, Hermione – for someone who can memorise so much you have a terrible memory when it comes to sports’ moves.”

            “It’s Quidditch,” she replied.

            “Exactly,” the two fourth year males said, in the same tone, clearly indicating that Hermione didn’t know what she’s talking about and Quidditch was the most _awesome_ sport in the history of human civilisation. Then, realising what they had done, both Harry and Draco Malfoy glanced at each other, then away, and cleared their throats as they tried to settle and pretend they didn’t have shared, common interests.

            “Riiiiiight,” said Hermione, her eyes darting between the two. The twitters from the giggly girls grew louder and Hermione felt a headache begin. “Can we go elsewhere?”

            Harry shrugged, and Malfoy nodded. “I know a place if you’re willing to come.”

            Harry and Hermione nodded, gathered their books and parchment and were soon out of the library, wandering down the hall and then up the stairs to the seventh floor.

            “I hope you’re not trying to tell us something, Malfoy,” laughed Harry as he watched Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to ballet dance; the painting wasn’t too large, but it was large enough to watch the strange situation take place with ease and detail.

            “Not quite,” answered Malfoy, instead pacing back and forth three times, when suddenly – a door appeared opposite the painting.

            “Ooooh,” squealed Hermione, as the door opened and Malfoy ushered them into a comfortable looking room, with a fire roaring in a large fireplace and many, many bookshelves. Several mannequins and dummies were clumped together in a far corner near a raised dueling stage, similar to the one Harry and Malfoy duelled on in their second year; a round table, surrounded by a two-seat divan and several arm chairs, took up the majority of the space by the fireplace.

            “Welcome to the Room of Requirements,” said Malfoy, waving his hand imperiously and then collapsing on the two-seater.

            “Has this always been here?” asked Harry, looking around in wonder, while Hermione was now ignoring them and at one of the floor to ceiling bookshelves.

            Malfoy nodded. “It’s a part of Hogwarts – the House Elves call it the Come and Go Room. It becomes whatever you need of the room, and whatever you need appears in here as well. When not in use, the room is storage for junk left behind over the years.”

            “Fascinating!” breathed Hermione, finally pulling herself from the books to settle into an armchair across from Malfoy.

            Harry’s lips twitched as he sat in the armchair next to Hermione, cutting her an amused look. “Yes, thanks, Spock.” Facing Malfoy, he asked, “So why are we here?”

            As Malfoy began to slightly squirm on the two-seat divan, Harry’s gaze narrowed. “What do you know about the first task?” the blond asked, settling in a semi-comfortable conversation topic.

            Harry shrugged.

            “I think Krum already knows,” answered Hermione, a far-away look on her face. “Traditionally, the first task has something to do with magical creatures, and he’s been hanging around the magical creatures section of the library.”

            “You would know,” teased Harry.

            Malfoy’s head whipped back and forth between the two. “Granger’s got a fancy for Krum!?”

            Hermione snorted and slouched in the armchair, in a manner Malfoy had clearly never seen before because he was staring at her like a strange, unknown species. Harry chuckled. “Hermione knows the library probably better than the Gryffindor common room. If she says that Krum’s been hanging around the magical creatures section, then I’d believe her.”

            Malfoy nodded, as if unsure, but willing to listen to Harry’s declaration.

            “But of course,” continued Harry with a sharp look at Malfoy, “The question was why _you_ were asking if I knew when you already know what the first task is.”

            Malfoy’s pale face whitened further, and then flushed. “ _Do you remember_?” he breathed out, staring eerily at Harry.

            “Remember what?” the Boy-Who-Lived replied, confused.

             “You don’t remember,” sighed Malfoy, settling back in his seat, and dropping his face into his hands.

            Hermione and Harry shared a look. Clearly, there was more to this time travel story than what they originally thought. On the other hand, maybe Malfoy was really nutters.

            “Why don’t you explain it?” asked Hermione cautiously, tentatively.

            “Can’t,” moaned Malfoy in response. “You wouldn’t understand. Not yet.”

            Hermione’s expression to Harry, in body language, read: _well. I tried. He’s clearly certifiable_ , all communicated through a shrug.

            The three were silent, listening to the pop and crack of the fire from the fireplace, with Hermione and Harry trying to avoid making Malfoy feel worse than he currently was. If he thought he time travelled, well, who were they to stop him from believing so? After all, he changed his personality based around that one tidbit, and neither Gryffindor was in a hurry to help change him back.

            “We’re cousins,” the blond finally said. “Did you know that?”

            Hermione knew wasn’t speaking to her; instead, she turned her head in shock to stare at Harry.

            “What?” the Gryffindor asked, jaw dropping. “We’re what?”

            “Cousins,” repeated Malfoy, finally bringing his hands away from his face. “My mother was a Black before marriage; your paternal grandmother was a Black before marriage. We’re second or third cousins.”

            “I was told...” Harry trailed off, surprised.

            “Told what?”

            “That I didn’t have any other family except the Dursleys,” answered Harry with a soft frown.

            Malfoy frowned too. “Really? The Potters are related to like, nearly all of the Purebloods in our year.”

            Hermione and Harry blinked stupidly at Malfoy.

            “You... you didn’t know?”

            At their wide-eyed stare, Malfoy sighed. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Just... when you learn about the first task, Potter... just... think about what you’re great at. Something that everyone has known since we were in first year.”

            “Ermmm...” said Harry, plainly confused.

            “You’ll understand when the time comes,” replied Malfoy, tiredly. He began to relax back into the divan, missing Harry’s glance to Hermione, who shrugged in response. Clearly, he was dismissing them.

            “Right,” said Hermione, in lieu of any response Harry was going to make. “We’ll be going then.”

            They were nearly at the door when Malfoy’s voice reached them for a final time. “You’re the youngest in a century, Potter. You’ll do fine.”

            Harry frowned. What would Quidditch have to do with the first task?

            The two Gryffindors left the Room of Requirement and Draco Malfoy alone in his thoughts.

**

            Draco’s standing up for Potter to Snape had earned him the ire of his Slytherin housemates, and certainly didn’t help him find a place to sit in the stands for the First Task. However, Granger spotted him walking by himself from the main doors, while she was with Longbottom, and waved him over.

            Surprised, but genuinely happy for the company despite who it was, Draco walked over, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Granger,” he said once he was within speaking distance. “Longbottom.”

            The three began walking, and with almost no thought, Draco stuck his left elbow out to Granger in the same manner he had during their walk to the Hospital wing.

            “Going to watch the Task?” asked Granger pleasantly, ignoring Longbottom’s blinking stare at her hand tucked in Draco’s elbow.

            “Yeah,” he replied. “Did Potter listen to the advice?”

            Granger nodded, her bushy hair bobbing. “He did. He’s been practicing manoeuvres all day yesterday. He had me throwing tennis balls at him.”

            Draco snorted. “That won’t help.”

            “The Bludgers he had Fred and George hit at him should,” she replied tartly. “And Neville was asked to make a distraction for Harry to lose concentration too. Lots of noise.”

            Draco’s eyebrow shot up and he glanced at Longbottom, who had flushed at her praise.

            “Didn’t help much,” he mumbled, looking down instead of enjoying Granger’s compliment. “He hears more noise at a match.”

            “Whatever you could do is good enough,” Draco argued with a warm tone, even though he personally agreed. “I’m sure Potter appreciated it too.”

            The three were silent until they reached the stands, looking at whether they would separate from Draco as he turned to the Slytherin section, or remain with them in the Gryffindor section.

            He tried to make things easier for everyone involved, disentangling Granger’s hand from his elbow and taking a few steps back but making no effort to climb the Slytherin section. He wouldn’t be welcomed there.

            Longbottom and Granger were staring at him.

            “What?” he finally snapped.

            “Aren’t you coming up with us?” asked Granger, finally. Longbottom was nodding alongside her.

            “... Why?”

            Longbottom snorted, then, sensing Draco’s gaze on him, flushed and looked away. Granger spoke up. “Because you’re my friend. And Harry’s. And we want you sitting with us.” She shrewdly looked at him. “And because you’re not welcome with the Slytherins at the moment?”

            Draco wryly smiled. He was enjoying this Granger, this girl he never had the chance to know. “Fine. But don’t grasp my arm that tightly, Granger – you’ll break the skin and leave permanent marks.”

            “Oh, and what a shame it would be for me to _mark_ you, Malfoy,” grinned Granger from under her lashes as she motioned for him to follow her and Longbottom. The Malfoy scion in him bristled at following her, but another part enjoyed her banter and teasing. None of the girls in Slytherin had ever taken the time to tease him properly, as friends or through flirting, and by the time he was ready for flirting, and the war had settled down, Pansy had died.

            Draco waited for his younger self’s consciousness to pipe in, but he was surprisingly silent. Maybe things were changing too rapidly for the younger consciousness to fully comprehend what game Draco was trying to play – or maybe he did. There was no way for Draco to be sure.

            At the top of the stairs, Longbottom and Granger made directly for a small space saved for them by the Weasley twins, Thomas, Finnegan, and the Weasel. Several other year mates, as well as the Gryffindor Quidditch team, were around the small space, clearly separating Potter’s closest friends from the rest of the house.

            Draco felt a pang of tightness in his chest. Had he ever had friends who had done that for him? Saved him a spot at a Quidditch game? Ensured he had something he wanted or needed to support someone else?

            It was Lavender Brown who caught sight of the three of them first, pushing and shoving their way through the excited crowd, just as Bagman began his introduction. “Hermione! Neville!” her eyes widened, then her lips curled into a smirk. Draco suppressed a shudder. If people thought the Gryffindors were reckless without cunning, they only had to look towards their women to know how untrue that statement was. “ _Malfoy._ Come join us over here!”

            At his name, several of the team and their year mates turned to face them, with the youngest Weasley boy gapping unattractively as Draco climbed over him and Finnegan with a mumbled, “excuse me.” He plopped down, rather inelegantly, next to Granger and settled between her and Longbottom, feeling strangely secure despite Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell at his back, two girls he had purposely tried to run off their brooms with Warrington.

            “Malfoy,” they greeted him coldly, but politely. He nodded back in response.

            “How’s it going, Ferret?” one of the twins asked with a beady look in their eyes that promised pain if he wasn’t polite.

            “Much better than I expected, and if I had sat next to your brother,” replied Draco honestly.

            The twin that spoke chuckled loudly and the other smirked. “So if you’re sitting in the Gryffindor stands, Malfoy, are you making a statement?”

            “Of what?” he asked back, loudly, as cheers erupted from the Hogwarts contingent as Cedric Diggory stepped out from the tent opening to face the Swedish Short-Snout.

            “That Harry’s going to win the most points, of course,” called back the first twin.

            Draco snorted.

            “Oi, don’t think so?” the second scoffed. “Wanna make a bet?”

            Draco smirked. “How much?”

            “A galleon to start. You seem like a good sort who’d make good on their bets, so if this works out, we’ll increase it for the Second Task,” the first twin explained.

            “Sold,” replied Draco, ignoring Granger’s eye roll. “Krum and Potter’ll tie.”

            The Twins gleefully wrote his bet down and then turned their attention to the task; Diggory’s transfiguration was slowly working.

            Draco tuned it all out; he helped Potter, he made the correct bet, and now it was time to sit back and enjoy – besides, it was nice to be swept up in the hollering and shouting noise that the Gryffindors were making. The Slytherins were too refined for that.

            And with a smirk planted firmly on his face, Draco sat back, crossed his arms, and for the first time in over a decade (of his consciousness at least), he was happy.

**

            That evening as Gryffindor celebrated, Harry snuck Hermione into his dorm room for a quick chat; as the center of attention, he couldn’t be away too long.

            “Malfoy knew what the task was,” he said quietly.

            Hermione nodded. “He made a bet with Fred and George correctly too.”

            The two fell silent, listening to the cheers and laughter floating up the stairs from the common room.

            “He’s still nutters,” said Harry finally. “We’ve travelled through time with a time turner. He hasn’t said anything about using one yet.”

            “So you’re saying he’s not telling the truth? That although he believes he travelled through time, he’s not all there?” asked Hermione sceptically.

            “Hermione, look,” sighed Harry. “I know he believes it, but we’ve actually done it. Do you believe him?”

            Hermione frowned. “Well... no. Not really.”

            The two fell silent again.

            Then, Hermione spoke up, softly. “He was right about the bet.”

            “And he was right about playing my strength would win against the first task,” sighed Harry, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses.

            When the two met each other’s eyes, they tensed and shifted uneasily.

            “It still doesn’t mean he’s travelled through time,” declared Hermione staunchly. “He’s probably just Confunded.”

            “Yeah,” agreed Harry. “Confunded.”

            But both of their tones demonstrated that neither was very sure about Draco Malfoy’s state of mind, and neither was fully committed to the idea that he _wasn’t_ a time traveller at all. In fact, as Harry led Hermione back downstairs to the common room, both were less sure about Draco Malfoy than they were before their conversation.

            Just as they left the final few steps and entered the rowdy Gryffindor party, Hermione caught Harry’s arm and they shared another look between the two of them.

            “He’s not, Hermione,” said Harry, “He’s just not.”

            “Right.”

            “You believe me, right?”

            “Yeah, of course I do, Harry.”

            Neither believed it.

**

 TBC...


	4. What to Believe

**

I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.

Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900),  _the Picture of Dorian Gray_ , 1891  
**

**ACT THREE: WHAT TO BELIEVE**

**

With no TriWizard tasks until after the Christmas hols, Draco was able to calm his nerves slightly and focus on plans to ensure he and his fellow Death Eaters regained their memories.

Sitting in the Room of Requirements, where Draco was currently living while avoiding his fellow Snakes, Draco’s idea progressively became silly. At first, he was tempted to just _tell_ his friends – to tell Theo and Pucey and Potter – but then he figured they’d institutionalise him in St. Mungo’s instead, so he began to think of hitting them over their heads to jog their memories, to confessing everything tearfully on his knees in front of Dumbledore.

He was giggling to himself on the divan, imagining his adult version lording over a strange, small, and shrivelled Voldemort (which was what he looked like currently, living off of his snake’s venom), with a cape and sceptre when Potter burst into the Room dramatically and came to a rest at Draco’s feet with a sulk.

“You!”

Draco raised his eyebrow in response. “Me, what?” This was familiar, their verbally charged responses and snarls.

“You time-travelling knave!”

That was new.

“Why didn’t you warn me that there was a Yule Ball?” Potter continued, coming to the end of his tirade and sinking into the armchair across from Draco’s seat. While Draco gapped at him unattractively, Granger swanned in, looking collected and calm and in complete opposition to Potter’s current emotional state.

“Don’t mind Harry, Draco,” said Hermione in greeting, “He’s just upset that no one will find him attractive or a worthy dance partner.”

“That’s not it!” defended Potter hotly.

“Of course it isn’t, Harry,” replied Granger tartly, setting her school bag down and placing her hands on her hips. “But did you want me to go around telling everyone it’s because Cho Chang is dating Cedric Diggory and she’s already taken so you want to wallow in a teenage, hormonally-driven sulk because _he got there before you_?”

Draco found himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Potter’s face went scarlet. After he composed himself and Granger abandoned Potter to his pout, in order to become acquainted with the numerous books on the shelves, Draco cleared his throat and asked, “Why not ask the little Weasley?”

A stifled laugh came from Granger’s direction, while Potter screwed up his face. “Well, ignoring that Ron’s being _Ron_ , the last time Ginny tried to have a conversation with me, she turned red and slipped her elbow into the butter dish.”

“Yes, that would make conversing with her during the Ball difficult,” agreed Draco, magnanimously, withholding his other thoughts. “What about Granger?”

 “Pardon me?” asked Granger, turning and joining the conversation.

She and Potter both looked thunderstruck.

“The two of you are friends and get along. If you’d feel better with someone you trust, then you should go together,” replied Draco, thinking back to how Granger looked in her blue periwinkle dress, her hair curly and not bushy, looking proud and confident and so strange on Krum’s arm a lifetime ago.

“Erm,” said Potter in response, causing Granger to offer a wry smile.

Turning, she said to Draco frankly, “I’m afraid neither Harry nor Ron ever saw me as a girl.”

Draco blatantly looked Granger up and down from her head to her toes. “You’re very clearly a _woman_ , Granger.”

Harry’s face went further red in embarrassment while Granger gave Draco a rather cheeky grin.

“Thanks,” she said, nodding and sitting in the leftover armchair, slouching. Draco learnt over the months becoming friendly with Granger and Potter that Granger only put on the prim and proper act in front of those she wasn’t fully confident or comfortable with; learning this made a tingle begin in the pit of Draco’s stomach, seeing trust given to him first hand.

“That still leaves poor Harry without a date,” finished Granger, sighing and lolling her head over to face Potter.

“There’s Lovegood,” answered Draco.

“You mentioned her before. She’s that really quiet and shy Ravenclaw in third year, right?” squeaked Potter, joining the conversation when it wasn’t focused on him. He frowned. “I’ve seen some of the older Ravenclaws treat her poorly.”

“I’d say so,” agreed Draco, “Given that they’re stealing and hiding most of her things. Greengrass – Astoria, that is, she’s a second year – saw some of this and wanted to put a stop to it so she told her older sister.”

“Daphne, right?” interjected Granger, nodding along.

Draco nodded. “Yeah, though she really only responds to ‘Queenie,’ as that was her father’s name for her – don’t ask, it’s a long story. Anyway, she scared a few of the ‘Claws, but not enough to permanently end things for Lovegood.”

“Hmmm,” answered Potter, deep in thought.

It was during this down time between the three that the Room of Requirement’s door opened again, admitting Theodore Nott, who came to check up on his friend. The teenager was looking down as he entered the room, focused on the titles of several books he was carrying, drawing everyone’s attention.

“—you couldn’t get your own bloody books, could you, Draco? No, you just _had_ to make me face Pince after that bloody switching spell yesterday—”

Theo broke off as he spotted Granger and Potter’s gazes. “Erm. Hello.”

“Hello,” the two Gryffindors responded evenly.

“Hey, Theo,” greeted Draco, moving his feet off the cushions and wordlessly inviting his friend to sit. “Did you get them all?”

“Umm… yes?”

Draco ignored his best friends’ rather confused response; he either found the books Draco needed or he didn’t, and if he didn’t, he’d be going back to the library to find them, since Draco couldn’t.

Not that Draco _physically_ couldn’t go to the library – he was more than capable of putting one foot in front of the other – but the truth of the matter was that he wasn’t feeling very _confident_ in travelling to the library, unless he was in a pack of people he knew wouldn’t try to hex him he moment his back was to them.

_It was strange,_ thought Draco, that in a single moment of demonstrating support to Potter, his house turned on him and he sought refuge with the very same people he once considered enemies.

As such, Theo was his go-between man, and Draco hoped that the large number of books he asked for on time travel would get his best friends’ brain jogged.

“What do you have there?” asked Granger, eyeing up the titles in Theo’s hands.

“Erm…”

“She’s fine, Theo, let her have a look at them before she rips them from your arms, the great bloody magpie that she is,” chortled Draco happily, leaning back in his seat and enjoying the startled expression on his friends’ face.

Granger’s eyes lit up and she practically Apparated across the floor and was flipping through the first book before Theo had time to react. “Interesting choices,” she said, glancing at the text before flipping a page.

“It’s something to keep me busy in my spare time,” responded Draco.

Granger huffed. “What, are you planning to high jack a Delorean now, to travel through time?”

Potter chuckled. “I hear 1955 is a good year.”

Granger shot her friend a grin, which he returned, and Draco felt oddly left out. He quickly decided to get back at Potter. But first: “You never know, a larger vehicular body may stabilise the quantum-flux slipstream.”

“You’d need to recalibrate the polarisation of the stream coordinates though,” argued Granger, absently giving Theo back the first book she was looking at and then taking another, leaving him staring oddly at the fifteen year old.

“Not necessarily,” argued Draco, “If I don’t recalibrate the polarisation, I can still reverse engineer the power stream in the time slip space wormhole.”

Certain that Potter was now not paying attention as soon as he started the techno-speak, he caught Granger’s eyes, changed topics, and drawled, “Of course, if Potter’s not interested in Weasley or Lovegood, there’s always Natalie MacDonald, she’s that first year...”

“Laura Madley?” shot off Granger, quickly catching onto him.

Draco made a face. “Potter with a ‘ _Puff_? Really, Granger...”

“Maybe older women then?” suggested Granger with a daring little smile, handing an unusually quiet Theodore Nott the book she had and taking the last one from him to glance through. “Katie Bell?”

“Angelina Johnson.”

“Not unless Harry wants to be used as a test subject for Fred.”

Draco shuddered. “Eloise—”

“Don’t go there,” warned Potter, joining the conversation with a dark tone, and causing Theo to startle in surprise. “Just... don’t. That’d be like suggesting Bulstrode and we both knew that, that won’t happen.”

“Just standards!” mocked Draco, enjoying himself. “Whatever will you do, Potter, with so few girls to choose from and so little time before all the _good ones_ are gone?”

Granger inadvertently scowled at the term Draco stressed, but the wink he sent in her direction made her roll her eyes in response. Having glanced through all the books Theo was carrying, she returned to browsing the bookshelves the Room provided.

It seemed as though Potter was considering what Draco had earlier said, as he turned to Granger, and tentatively, almost shyly, began, “Uh… Hermione… W-Would you…?”

“Would I, what, Harry?” asked Granger, turning to face her friend and teasing him horribly by making him say the sentence in full, in front of Draco and Theo.

“Wouldyougototheballwithme?” he exploded in one, quick sentence.

“I suppose,” she replied with a sigh, but there was a slight smile on her lips. “Since you’ve finally noticed I’m female, anyway.”

“With a little bit of help,” interjected Draco evenly. “And had you not asked Granger, Potter, I would’ve suggested Tracey Davis or even Daphne; either would’ve been happy to go with you.”

Potter obviously wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he settled for a half-hearted wry grin that wobbled quickly off his mouth.

Draco thought back to his previous timeline, when Granger had walked in on Viktor Krum’s arm, and how shocked everyone had been at the transformation. The truth was that Granger _was_ good looking – rather pretty, actually – but most of it was hidden under her bushy hair and she slouched under the weight of her books. Her intelligence was a turn on for a particular type of wizard; Draco knew Theo had a wee crush on her that he would never act on, due to the conflict between their two Houses.

“Now that we’re done the subject of me,” began Potter dryly, “Perhaps you can tell us who _you’re_ going to take, Malfoy?”

Draco waved his hand negligently in the air, glancing at Theo once his Slytherin friend recovered from his shock and sat next to him on the couch. “So many girls, so little time, Potter.”

Granger snorted. “What? Not taking Parkinson to the Ball as your date, Malfoy?”

Draco shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, Granger, I’m a bit _persona non grata_ amongst the Slytherins at the moment. Pansy won’t go with me.”

Both Granger and Potter shared a glance between them – again leaving Draco feeling left out, a strange feeling that. Peeved, Draco snapped, “What?”

Potter shook his head. “I still don’t understand why you decided to tell everyone you believe I didn’t put my name in the TriWizard Cup. You’ve always been one of the first to point out when I’m seeking attention or doing something stupid or Muggle.”

Draco winced, glancing away. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. “I have my reasons.”

“We know,” said Granger gently, quietly, as she turned away from the books to face the three teens. “And we won’t push you. When you’re ready, you’ll tell us. If you want.”

Draco nodded, and Granger and Potter stood, indicating they were ready to leave.

“Thanks for showing us the Room, Malfoy,” Potter said, with a small smile. “If I ever lose track of Hermione, I’ll know where to look now.”

Draco let out a bark of laughter. “First place, library; second, here. I get it.”

Granger gave a little wave to both the Slytherins on the couch, and then she and Potter disappeared through the door, leaving Draco alone with Theo.

“Are you ever going to tell me, too?” his best friend asked quietly, his focus on the strange collection of time travelling books.

Draco shook his head. “I won’t have to, hopefully. You’ll figure it out soon enough, I think. Maybe.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll tell you. This summer, if you don’t know,” said Draco, just as quietly. “I promise.”

Theo nodded, settling back into the cushions, satisfied at Draco’s response. “Good. Just don’t get mushy on me.”

Draco grinned. “There won’t be anything worth getting mushy over – that I can guarantee.”

*

The Yule Ball was a giant hot mess from start to finish, leaving Harry cursing Dumbledore and the rest of the TriWizard Tournament officials every which way to Sunday, and back.

Of course, he and Hermione had fun; she suggested they practice a dance for the opening ceremony, which would likely be a waltz, and together they used McGonagall’s classroom after class hours and her gramophone. Unlike their previous years, when Hermione would tackle a new project with gusto and pizzazz, Harry found Hermione enjoyed the lessons of teaching him to dance a waltz and made it fun and interesting, since it was active participation and not book memorization.

They didn’t do anything fancy with their steps – although their one attempt at a spin out and dip was an utter failure with Harry dropping Hermione onto the stone floor. Luckily, she laughed it off and then spent the rest of the evening deliberately stepping on Harry’s toes.

After, they coordinated Harry’s bottle-green dress robes to match Hermione’s periwinkle gown (but they asked Professor Flitwick to change the colour of Harry’s robes instead of trusting their own spell work). Harry ended up with a fitted, black robe that was similar to a tuxedo jacket with tails, and a tie in periwinkle.

After that, it was just waiting for Hermione to show up at the bottom of the staircase in the Entrance Hall, as they arranged, as Harry stood with the other Champions. He had seen Ron slunk into the Great Hall dateless, while Neville and his date, Hannah Abbott, smiled and waved; even Draco Malfoy, with an openly curious Daphne Greengrass, stopped for a brief chat and cordial hello.

Although his crush on Cho Chang was still in force, Harry managed to politely greet her and Cedric Diggory and even engage them in a conversation about Quidditch. Viktor Krum arrived last, after Fleur Delacour, both with Hogwarts students as their dates but neither of them people Harry knew.

McGonagall approached, telling the Champions to line up. She sent a curious glance at Harry, as if asking _where’s Hermione_? On cue, Harry turned to the staircase and saw his best friend effortlessly gliding down the steps, her hand delicately resting on the banister for support.

Her dress was what she described to Harry and therefore, was no surprise; however, she used product in her hair to give it shine and style, twisting half of it into a partial bun and leaving the rest curled around her shoulders. She wore light makeup, a glossy sheen to her lips and a bit of darker colour around her eyes. She needed no blush, being entirely flushed upon realising she was everyone’s object of interest, being the last to arrive.

“Ms. Granger,” began Professor McGonagall, slightly choked up, as she looked the teen over, “You look lovely. Please join Mr. Potter so we may begin.”

Hermione bobbed her head and latched on to Harry’s extended elbow. In heels, she was slightly above him in height, but it was enough for them to be at eye level. Harry caught her eye, and winked.

“Stop it,” she hissed, although incredibly pleased by the reaction she received.

“Haven’t said anything,” laughed Harry, and she grinned; that was what the entire Hogwarts population and their foreign guests saw as the Champions entered the Great Hall: Harry and Hermione laughing, both wearing pleased grins and flushed cheeks at the rear of the line up.

At the corner of his eye, he saw Ron’s mouth drop open and his entire face take on a red hue. And that, Harry determined, was when the night went pear-shaped.

Having followed the rest of the Champions, Harry and Hermione ended up seated next to Percy Weasley, who sat in for Barty Crouch, and next to Cho for Hermione. Conversation at first was stilted amongst all the Champions who sat with their school professors and Heads, as well as TriWizard organisers – none of the teens knew quite what to talk about.

After ordering their meals, conversation began around how good their food tasted; Percy began waxing on about the thickness of cauldron bottoms, which Harry couldn’t understand would be necessarily important, and left Percy’s conversation to Professor Dumbledore, who seemed far more engaged and interested. Instead, he joined Cho, Cedric, Krum, and Fleur’s date, Roger Davies, to talk about Quidditch. Hermione, seeing that Fleur and Krum’s date didn’t join, asked the girls about their dresses (which Harry was honestly surprised at, since Hermione rarely engaged in feminine discussion with her dormmates) that kept them entertained.

Yet, Harry could not get Ron’s face from his mind, as he continued to glare at them from his dinner table. Harry could feel the burn from the glare as easily as he could feel Snape’s from day one at Hogwarts, following him and waiting for an opportune moment to corner him. Harry wasn’t looking forward to that evitable conclusion of a massive fight that was only now just beginning to boil, but which had brewed since the Champions were named.

Once the Champions finished their meals, Dumbledore indicated with his wand towards a player-less orchestra on the far side of the Great Hall, and they began tuning their instruments.

“Let us welcome our Champions by opening the dance floor with a waltz,” called Dumbledore, his voice echoing throughout the Hall.

“Oh thank God,” whispered Harry breathlessly, clutching at Hermione’s hand as she caught his eye with a wide grin.

“If only it was a foxtrot or samba,” she sighed instead, making Harry blanch.

While the other Champions each chose a spot far enough away that they wouldn’t crash into each other, Harry felt his heart race and thickly gulped as he gently took Hermione’s hand in his right and placed his left on her lower back.

“Hey,” she said quietly, looking at him. He caught her eyes. “We practiced this. Numerous times. You know what to do; your _feet_ know what to do. Don’t think about them watching us – this is just us in Professor McGonagall’s classroom, okay?”

Harry grinned weakly. “Okay.”

And then the music began, a slow swell of strings and wind instruments, and Harry took a step forward, slowly, gently guiding Hermione with his left hand to move as they began a simple box step in small, measured moves. Soon, Harry gained confidence and despite continuing to feel Ron’s glare, he began to make larger steps, sweeping steps that Hermione laughed gaily at, throwing her head back a little as she did so and immediately catching everyone’s attention.

Harry, twirling her around now as their steps became more fluid, even if they were the same four steps, saw the jealous and surprised looks thrown their way, and flushed with pleasure. For once, he was the centre of attention without having done anything but make a girl laugh, not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, but because he made her happy with a dance.

Harry grinned at Hermione, and together they finished the dance with smiles on their faces and heavy breaths. As the music ended, Harry let go of Hermione and gave her a courteous bow; she responded with a curtsey and a smile of her own.

The dance floor then was flooded as the other students and their dates joined for another waltz, and Harry took Hermione’s hand once more for a second dance.

“One more,” she said, “Then ask Cho to dance. Make sure you dance with all the Champions or their dates.”

“I’m glad you tacked that on,” replied Harry, his feet now moving surely, “Because I don’t think Krum would’ve enjoyed dancing with me as much as he probably will with you. He keeps glancing over.”

“Are you sure it’s me he’s looking at?” taunted Hermione boldly. “It could be you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

Harry wryly grinned. “Tall, huh? Now I _know_ you’re lying.”

They laughed and then Harry twirled Hermione towards Cedric and Cho; as they neared, he extended his arm, and Hermione ended up in front of Cedric with a grin.

“Mind if I cut in?” asked Harry, with a smile.

Cedric laughed, glancing at Cho to see if she was agreeable. “Not at all!”

“Thanks,” answered Harry and then took Cho in his arms.

They were silent for a bit, as they danced, before Harry ventured, “I wanted to say thank you for your nice rejection.”

Cho flushed red and stammered, “Harry... I’m sorry, but Cedric had already asked”—

“No, no,” interjected Harry with a smile, “That’s fine! I just wanted to say it was the nicest rejection I’ve ever had.”

Cho laughed.

Afterwards, Harry danced with Fleur and then Krum’s date, but he didn’t have much to say to either of them. Upon returning to Hermione, who had danced with Cedric, Krum, and Roger Davies (whom she said was a right bore), Harry offered to get her a drink, just as Krum came towards them for a second dance request.

Glancing at Harry, Hermione was unsure at how to respond, but her friend saved her from rejecting Krum. “I’ll get that drink for you, and when you’re done dancing, just come find me at the table over there,” he said, indicating to an empty table near the door. Both Krum and Hermione agreed and were gone; Harry left for the buffet and drinks table, pouring two glasses of punch for himself, being parched, and for Hermione, whom he was sure would want a drink after all her dances.

He sat quietly at the table, surprisingly not feeling lonely. He was enjoying himself, despite Ron’s glares – he wondered why – and his partner’s popularity.

“Enjoying the night, Potter?” drawled a voice that Harry immediately recognised.

“Surprisingly, yes,” he responded, as Draco sat at one of the free chairs. “How is yours going?”

“Well,” admitted Draco with a smile, glancing at the Slytherin side of the Hall where they congregated. Daphne was subtly flaunting the fact she was Draco’s date over Pansy, who looked livid at a girl’s only table.

“Oh, boy,” said Harry, following his gaze. “And that won’t be a problem?”

“Not for me,” boasted the Slytherin, causing Harry to laugh loudly in response to the arrogant reply.

“Fraternising with the enemy now?” sneered another voice Harry knew well, which made him mentally groan.

As if on cue, Hermione and Krum appeared, breathless and happy, but cutting themselves off mid-laugh as they saw Harry turn to roll his eyes at Ron, who was looming above his seated best friend. They had heard what he said. Draco, however, merely sat back and crossed his arms in response.

“Don’t be so stupid!” Harry said.

Ron’s narrowed eyes shifted from Draco to Krum.

Harry caught the look and so did Hermione, who burst out, “The _enemy_! Honestly – who was the one who was all excited when they saw Viktor arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up their dormitory?”

With each accusation, Ron’s ire – and the flush in his cheeks – grew, just as Krum’s discomfort at being caught mid-argument and being drawn in to one, did.

“I s’pose Harry asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?” Ron moodily asked, eyes drawing away from Krum, who began to slink off, to Harry.

“No, he didn’t,” replied Hermione, coolly. “Not like it’s your business, Ronald. But Harry did ask me.”

“Pro’bly felt sorry for you, didn’t he?” continued Ron, talking over Hermione. “Like he always feels sorry for you. You probably talked to him so much about _spew_ he had to agree to shut you up.”

Draco interjected quickly as twin red splotches of colour appeared on Hermione’s cheeks. He knew that look, very well. “Actually, Weasley, I was the one who suggested Potter and Granger go together, since they were with me at the time.”

Ron’s aghast and pale face was enough to make him lose his train of thought – but only briefly. “You’re hanging out with _him_ now?”

“Well, unlike _you_ , he believed Harry from day one that he never put his name in the Cup,” replied Hermione tartly, leaving Harry to sit between Draco and her, his head whipping back and forth.

“He’s a _Slytherin_! Of _course_ he’s going to try to get on your good side! He’s just trying to get closer to Harry – get inside information on him – pass it on to his Death Eater friends and Snape – or get near enough to jinx him—”

Hermione looked scandalised on Harry’s behalf, and even Draco looked at Ron in disappointment and pity. “He hasn’t asked us a _single thing_ about Harry or the tournament—”

“Oh, but that doesn’t stop a sneaky, disgusting Slytherin from information gathering, does it?” butted Ron, continuing breathlessly as Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“You’re really stretching it, Weasley,” drawled Draco in amusement, leaning forward to look better at the redhead. “This whole tournament was supposed to be about getting to know foreign witches and wizards and making friends with them. I think Potter and Granger are managing that well enough, aren’t they? Dancing with all the Champions and their dates and chatting about at dinner. What have you been up to, huh?”

“The tournament is about _winning_!” shouted Ron.

They were beginning to draw attention, the kind Harry didn’t like, so he tried to appeal to Ron, who was the loudest, and Hermione, his date, to calm down. “Ron, I haven’t got a problem with Hermione dancing with Viktor; I danced with Fleur...”

Ron ignored him. Harry was beginning to dislike that, an angry twinge in his stomach feeding his own growing anger.

“Why don’t you go find _Vicky_ , he’ll be wondering where you are,” sneered Ron.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” muttered Draco, standing from his seat, drawing up to his full height next to Hermione. “Weasley, stop being so _goddamn_ jealous and just realise that Granger is attractive and prefers real wizards over boys like you.”

Ron’s jaw dropped open, and Harry – who knew Ron probably better than he knew himself – jumped up from his seat and grabbed Hermione around the waist. In a fluid move that Hermione would later swear he should have used on the dance floor, Harry twirled Hermione around to place her behind him and Draco just as Ron whipped his wand out.

“Don’t be stupid, Weasley,” said Draco quietly, eyeing the trembling wand as it was pointed directly at him. “We’re in the middle of the Hall and everyone can see what you’re doing.”

“What’s this? Ron? What are you doing?”

Never had Harry been so glad to see Percy Weasley in his life.

Although there were several eyes on them, Harry piped up, “Percy! Hi! So glad you’re here. Remember what you were saying at dinner about the cauldron bottoms’ thickness? Ron was just asking about it and wondering if it would help improve his potions grade if there were standardised bottoms. You might want to explain things some more. Well, look at the time! Must dash. Bye!”

And with an arm wrapped around Hermione’s waist, Harry bodily moved her through the crowd and towards the entrance hall, Draco trailing them while trying to hold in his sniggers.

When they were partially hidden behind a pillar and in a darkened alcove, Hermione buried her face in her hands. “Was he always like that?”

Harry sighed.

Draco shrugged and leaned against the wall, keeping his eyes trained on the empty Entrance Hall. “You knew Weasley best.”

“It’s just...” Hermione trailed off, looking up. “He wasn’t like this before.”

“Jealousy, I suppose,” offered Harry. “Look, let’s just give it time, okay? Things are heightened right now. He’s upset and jealous over things; we’re getting emotional in response. Let’s just wait and see how the year goes and then we’ll go over this with him.”

“I suppose,” replied Hermione doubtfully. “But after everything we’ve learned? What Ron is like without us around? And now this?”

“Benefit of the doubt,” supplied Harry quietly. “And we’ll cross that bridge when we get there, Hermione. Not before. Let’s not think of it now.”

“Best idea,” agreed Draco, glancing at the two, but not changing his position. “You’ve got enough to worry about.”

Harry nodded in agreement, and wrapped a friendly arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Now, c’mon, you look great in that dress. Let’s head back and hear what the Weird Sisters sound like. I’ve never heard wizarding music before.”

“You haven’t?” asked Draco in surprise. “What do you listen to?”

“My cousin likes the Beastie Boys,” answered Harry, grinning at Draco’s confused face.

“Who?”

The three returned to the Yule Ball, although both Harry and Hermione were visibly subdued after their argument with Ron; Draco wandered back over to his date and left the TriWizard Champion and his date alone, speaking quietly by the very same table Ron confronted them at earlier.

“Do you feel like everything is just getting worse and worse?” asked Hermione quietly, her eyes watching the throng of students in front of the stage, where the Weird Sisters were performing ‘Dance like a Hippogryff.’

Harry nodded.

“Something big is going to happen, isn’t it?” she continued.

Harry scoffed. “Doesn’t something big happen at the end of every year?”

Hermione hummed her agreement, and the silence between them grew. Harry’s eyes wandered more often than not towards Cho and Cedric dancing, and their happy faces, but occasionally strayed to the other Champions and their dates and others in the crowd. His eyes picked out several acquaintances and their partners: Neville and Hannah Abbott, Draco and Daphne, Seamus and Parvati and Dean and Padma. Lavender was dancing with a boy from Beauxbatons while tossing her hair and giggling. Ron and Percy were nowhere to be seen.

“Are you ready for it this year?” Hermione finally asked, her voice tinged with resignation.

Harry thought it over; was he ever prepared for whatever was in store for him at the end of the school year? Was he ready when he went after the Philosopher’s Stone, or when he burst into the Chamber of Secrets to rescue Ginny and fight a younger version of Voldemort? Was he ready to learn the truth about his parents’ deaths, and about his godfather?

No, he was never ready, never prepared. Maybe it was time to change that. Maybe it was time to start believing that he was capable and – since he knew he never put his name in and someone wanted him dead – maybe it was time to start showing the wizarding world what he was capable of... even if he had yet to scratch the surface of his belief in his abilities.

“I think I will be,” began Harry slowly, his drawing dragging themselves away from the happy teenagers dancing to glance at Hermione from the corner of his eyes. She too was looking out onto the crowd, but as if feeling his eyes on her, tilted her head in his direction and caught his peripheral gaze. “If I have you by my side, helping me out.”

Hermione gave a tiny smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry smiled back.

*

            The months following the Yule Ball were strangely chaotic while maintaining a strange ambiance of surrealistic normalcy.

Hagrid had been made to feel inferior due to Rita Skeeter’s tip-off that he had giant blood, and she all but did the same to Madam Maxime’s reputation by pointing out her size; however, she refrained from declaring it to avoid an international incident.

Harry, with help from Draco and Cedric, “took a bath” and heard the Mermish song indicating that the second task would require a) swimming, which Harry didn’t know how to do, and b) something precious would be taken from him and placed at the bottom of the lake for him to retrieve, which he wasn’t pleased about either.

In the end, Hermione – and not Ron, which sent the redhead into another moody spiral – was taken as Harry’s hostage. Harry played the hero when Fleur didn’t come for her little sister, and only Krum and Cedric managed to free their hostages (their Yule Ball dates) but both were beyond the hour limit.

Following the task, Harry’s daily existence was of the Gryffindors publically backing him against the three other Houses in Hogwarts, and staying on top of his homework with Hermione and Neville’s help. While Harry realised that the entire plot of his name in the Cup could mean facing another version of Voldemort by June, he was honestly more frightened of Snape. He only doubled his study habits when Hermione pointed out that while Snape was scary, and hated him, for the most part Snape wasn’t trying to actively kill him on an annual basis.

Relief came in the form of Draco, who took Harry out to the Quidditch pitch during February to April for freeform flying. The Slytherin was a strange companion, always around when Harry was at his lowest for an encouraging word or two; pointing out helpful study tips or wand movements that both he and Hermione had no idea about (which later became a rant on Hermione’s part about purebloods hoarding knowledge); or even just spending time with them in the Room of Requirements. After the second task, even Theodore Nott became a more visible figure joining them in the Room, although more often than not, his time was monopolised by Hermione grilling him on what books he brought for Draco.

When a chance encounter after a flying session with Draco ended up with a conversation with Viktor Krum – whom Harry was on speaking terms with since the Yule Ball and the foreigner’s fascination with Hermione — and finding the transfigured body of Barty Crouch, Harry realised time was running out.

Dumbledore, however, seemed to run on his own clock and decided that despite Harry’s snooping in his pensieve, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. After all, Harry was bound by magic to compete in the Tournament, so compete he would – nothing could change that.

Harry left Dumbledore’s office disgruntled and annoyed, and ultimately ended up in the Room, where Hermione, Draco, and Theo lounged.

Hermione frowned as she recounted what Harry had explained to them. “So Dumbledore thinks You-Know-Who’s getting stronger again as well?”

Harry nodded.

Theo was determinedly not involving himself with the discussion, hiding his face behind a thick tome near a crackling fire. Draco, on the other hand, was lounging on a couch, facing Harry and Hermione with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it right now,” sighed Hermione, glancing down at her watch. “We need to continue practicing your spellwork, Harry. Impediment Curse? Accio? What would you like to start with?”

“Anything that this point that may help me,” groaned Harry as he slowly got to his feet. “We might as well just go through every spell we learned since First Year and make our way through the books.”

“We’d be here forever,” retorted Hermione, standing as well.

“I don’t want to take away from your study time, though,” added Harry, as though she hadn’t spoke. “You should be studying for your final exams, like Theo is, instead of helping me.”

“Consider it review,” said Hermione instead, smiling at her friend, and picking up a book from a side table. “Shall we start?”

As Hermione shouted out spells, hexes and curses for Harry to perform, who in turn attacked a dummy conjured for the very purpose of being his target, Harry soon mastered the Impediment Curse, the Reductor Curse, and the Four-Point Spell, which would come in handy with the third task and the maze.

His shield charm needed work, and Draco helped where he could, but the Slytherin’s patience was practically nonexistent, and soon everything Harry did frustrated the blond.

“Damn it, Potter!” he shouted, finally. “Why can’t you get this through your thick skull? I can’t believe you even managed to stay alive as long as you had!”

“Wait, what?” asked Harry, lowering his wand from its ready position as Draco threw his hands in the air and turned his back on his duelling partner.

Draco was ignoring him, running his hands through his hair while Harry and Hermione stood shock still.

“It must have been luck, that has to be it,” Draco was muttering. “How else could he survive the Killing Curse? Prophecy or no prophecy, Potter was always below average, even in spell power. How could he survive everything? The Department of Mysteries? When the Death Eaters infiltrated in our sixth year? The Dark Lord’s campaign afterwards and then their capture?”

“What is he talking about?” murmured Harry, as he moved to stand beside Hermione, who was staring at Draco in disbelief.

“He’s talking about things we haven’t experienced yet,” she breathed, eyes wide and round.

“Yet?” questioned Harry, but he understood.

_Time travel._

Draco was still ranting. “Oh, look at me – I’m Harry Potter – the Boy-Who-Lived, the _Chosen One_ but I only choose to use Imperio and silly little school-level curses instead of hitting them with everything I’ve got because I’m an _idiot_...”

“Hey now!” protested Harry, speaking up.

Yet, Draco continued. “No _wonder_ the Dark Lord won. No _wonder_ everyone died. Merlin, even Teddy deserved more, as did Victorie...”

“Who?” asked Hermione, frowning.

“Travelling through time to save his story arse and he can’t even be _bothered_ to _remember_ it,” muttered Draco, his back to the Gryffindors. “Why did I even search the blasted thing down? Stupid Clock. Stupid Dark Lord. Stupid Death Eaters. Stupid _me_.”

Harry stepped forward and placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, making the teen stop speaking and immediately tense. Slowly, he turned his head to face Harry, silver eyes flashing as the Slytherin took in Harry’s frown.

“I think it’s time that you tell us everything,” said Harry slowly, his eyes dark, a heavy emerald in the Room’s light.

Slowly, Draco nodded, his eyes darting to Hermione, who was regarding him solemnly, but with a touch of something else in her eyes.

“Yes,” he finally said, nodding. “Yes, I think it is time.”

As Draco began to speak, one of the Room of Requirement’s walls smoothed out and rippled white before a swirling mass of colours consolidated into images that Harry and Hermione recognised as themselves – only, older, dirtier, wearing worn clothing and gaunt faces, which then morphed into four figures standing before a maze entrance in flickering torch light.

“It started when Scabior caught you, Weasley and Granger in the Forest of Dean. No... In truth, it started the night of the third task, when Cedric Diggory was murdered...”

**

TBC...

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel like I should say that my interest in fandoms tend to rotate based on mood. Although I have "fallen out of love" with HP canon, I do regularly return to my [numerous] HP fanfics and add to them; it just may take a disturbingly large amount of time before I do update, as I tend to fall in love with other fandoms in the meantime -- such as Downton Abbey, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Vampire Diaries, Teen Wolf...
> 
> As such, the story does have the next two chapters planned out; but whether or not I will get to them anytime soon is up in the air. I am working three part time jobs, waiting to hear about PhD acceptances for September 2014, and working on several personal events that require governmental research and many, many forms filled out. Those take time and MUCH mental focus.
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed this chapter -- I felt this was the best place to end, even though the Third Task was originally planned for the chapter. Instead, the deviation from canon will truly begin now, and to answer your questions: YES, SOMEONE ELSE DOES REMEMBER. However, they are currently indisposed and unable to help Draco Malfoy. That, however, may soon change. :)


	5. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the incredibly long time in updating. First year of the PhD went well, although courses, TAing, and work kept me quite busy. There is probably a change in writing style between this chapter and the last, but I’ll do my best in keeping them similar as I don’t think my fictional writing has changed – or improved – as much as my academic writing.
> 
> Unsure of when the next update will happen; the next chapter is planned out. However, I am out of the country and I plan on spending my summer researching and working on conference papers and spending time with my husband (almost one year!) and new kitten.
> 
> Thanks for not giving up on me, or this story. Best!

**

“There are no safe choices. Only other choices.”

\- Libba Bray, _A Great and Terrible Beauty_

**

ACT FOUR: CHOICE

             Neither Hermione nor Harry knew what to say immediately following Malfoy’s rather long explanation. In fact, they sat in silence for a full thirty minutes once he was done, digesting what he said, and wondering how truthful it was.

            But, it was like Hermione had said earlier – he _believed_ he was from the future with all his heart, and if he believed it, in the wizard world, then why couldn’t it be true? And for Hermione, it just made so much _sense_ – how he was acting, why he was doing what he was doing, even his rather large change in attitude since the World Cup.

            _So that it_ , thought Hermione, she believed him.

            She glanced out of the corner of her eye to Harry, to see what he was thinking. To be fair, he looked rather constipated with his thinking face on, but she could also _see_ the thoughts swirling about as they came to the same conclusion; in some way, it was a product of growing up Muggle – they came to accept stranger things in the wizarding world easier than those who actually grew up in the wizarding world because they already had preconceived notions of what could or could not happen. Magic was, quite simply to Hermione and Harry, _magic._ No rhyme, logic, or reason.

            A quick glance at Malfoy made Hermione realise that their silence had taken a toll on the young man: he sat with his head in his hands, bowled over and hunched in his seat as he waited for Hermione and Harry to pass sentence on him.

            Well. There was nothing else to do but let him know, now.

            “I believe you,” said Hermione, clearly, her voice ringing through the silence of the Room of Requirements strongly.

            Malfoy’s head shot up, bloodshot eyes meeting Hermione’s. Harry, beside her, gave a tiny noise in his throat that sounded strangled, but immediately he cleared it, the rasp echoing in the room.

            “Same,” he added.

            Malfoy continued to stare at them.

            “Everything?” he finally asked, hoarsely.

            Hermione nodded. Harry grimaced. “Even the bit about the other Death Eaters coming back, too. Although I’m still confused why I don’t have my memories, yet.”

            Malfoy sighed, running his hands through his now-messy hair. “I’m not sure. All I can assume is that the clock sent everyone back to a time they thought they could make the most effort or change in. Or not. As far as I know, I’m the only one with my memories. No one else knows – Theo, my father, Adrian...”

            Silence descended on the three again.

            “You glossed over bits,” said Hermione tentatively, breaking the silence with a soft voice. “Was it... was it very bad?”

            Malfoy shuddered. “Yes.”

            She nodded, releasing air heavily through her nose as she did so. “So. That’s it then. There’s no choice in the matter.”

            “’Mione?” asked Harry, slowly, blinking.

            She turned to face him, her eyes glowing with an inner awareness that sent a shiver up Harry’s spine. He could hear a long-almost forgotten echo of Ron’s voice stating, in awe, _you’re brilliant, you know, but a bit scary, too._..

            “If Malfoy and the others came back in time to change things,” began Hermione evenly, the fire from the fireplace mirrored in her eyes, “Then we need to ensure those changes happen. And they need to happen soon.”

            “The third task,” answered Malfoy wearily. “That’s the night it all went wrong.”

            Harry sighed, leaning back into the plush couch and with a tight voice, “Then I suppose we’re going to have to plan this all out very carefully, aren’t we?”

**

            The day of the third task began with Draco heaving over the toilet in the Room of Requirements, anxiety bubbling up so strongly in his gut that it physically churned and manifested itself.

            _If Potter failed to stop what happened tonight_ , he thought wildly, _if he failed – it could all begin again and without anyone else remembering_ , _how could he, a fourteen-year-old boy going on thirty-something, manage to stop Voldemort?_

            The simple answer was, he couldn’t.

            And then he would be forced to do this all over again.

            Find the clock. That stupid clock.

            Find others like him, who would go against the Death Eaters and Voldemort, who could aid Potter.

            And then go back in time, _again_ , and hope for a better result. Like, being sent to his first year, and not making a mess of his introduction with Potter and gaining his cousin’s hand in friendship. Surely, that would mean something?

            With shaking hands, Draco managed to wipe his face with a damp washcloth, flush the toilet, and stood on wobbly legs, heaving himself in front of the mirror above the vanity, looking at his sickly pale face and the bags under his eyes.

            Tonight, everything would change.

            He had to be ready.

            He began donning his Slytherin uniform like armour, each layer another block, another wall to hide behind. He buttoned his trousers—his face smoothed over. He slipped on his shoes—his eyes hardened. He buttoned up his Oxford shirt and a tiny smirk appeared on his lips. He knotted his Slytherin green and grey tie, and then added his last piece: his green jumper and smoothed it down with a calm, practiced hand.

            His grey eyes were steely, cold, and calculated, and certainly not weary, worried, or anxious as they had been; _no_ , Draco thought with a nod of his head at his reflection. He was ready. It was time.

**

            Hermione waited with Harry in the Champion’s tent, the same one that they used for the first task before the dragons. This time though, the anxiety levels were nowhere near as high as they had been during the first task; in some, awkward, sense, the four TriWizard champions had begun to anticipate the tasks and the challenges ahead. Although none of them possibly knew – with the exception of Harry, of course – that the Cup was a portkey to a cemetery in England.

            He frowned, realising that even with Barty Crouch, Jr. helping him through the maze tonight, eliminating obstacles where he could for the teenager that Harry would ultimately need to be the one to stop both Viktor Krum and Cedric from reaching the cup prematurely. He knew from Malfoy’s retelling that he would come across Krum using the Cructiatus curse on Cedric, and that he would knock him out, only for he and Cedric to go their separate ways. The two would meet up again, and their darker nature would prevail as Cedric would try to get the Cup over Harry.

            And Harry would need to decide how he was going to handle that situation when it occurred. Because he couldn’t just flat-out knock Cedric out of the running – they were both Hogwarts Champions! But he couldn’t let Cedric come with him. And he certainly couldn’t tell Cedric the truth.

            Harry scoffed out loud, and completely missed the incredulous and disbelieving looks from the other three at the noise.

            _Yes_ , he thought, _can you imagine? I go up to Cedric and say, ‘hey – Cedric, by the way. You can’t take the Cup and become Hogwart’s TriWizard Champion because it will take you to a cemetery where Voldemort and his most loyal servant Wormtail are waiting to use me a ritual. Voldemort wants his body back – could you kindly not succumb to peer pressure and allow me to take the title instead? Oh, really? How kind. You’re so Hufflepuff. I won’t forget this. No, not at all. Thank you for understanding. Really.’_

            No. That would never happen.

Cedric Diggory may be a Hufflepuff: a young man that was kind, friendly, and tenacious... but he was also shrew, foolhardy, and loyal to such a fault that if he knew Harry was running headfirst, deliberately, into trouble... he would go with him.

Probably out of some kind of misguided ‘older brother’ complex, being an only child but a prefect and therefore, a child herder, but still...

A squeeze on his hand brought Harry’s attention to the very still and silent girl sitting beside him. Her brown eyes met his green, and Harry felt the ball of anxiety in his stomach loosen, if only just.

“It’ll work out,” whispered Hermione.

“I know,” he whispered back.

“Lady and gentlemen!” announced Bagman as he swept into the tent, with Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Maxime, and reporters, following behind him.

Harry and Hermione shared another quick reassuring glance before she ducked behind Viktor Krum (Harry pretended not to see the quick kiss she pressed to his cheek) and then she vanished out a partially open flat.

“Are you ready?” continued the TriWizard announcer.

None of the Champions dignified that with a response.

The flamboyant man cleared his throat nervously and turned his smile on the delegation behind him. “Well, let’s move out to the maze, shall we?”

Harry allowed himself to fall into line last, shuffling out behind Krum. Immediately leaving the tent, a deafening roar rocked Harry back on his heels. The tent had been silenced from hearing anything in the stands.

Lights popped as Rita Skeeter’s reporter began taking pictures, smoke waffling up into the clear night sky. Harry blinked the spots away in response, his eyes darting this way and that from behind his glasses.

The maze was lit with huge, floating balls of light, turning the stadium Quidditch stands into shadow. Harry could only make out a rolling mass of people, swarming up and down and waving flags or signs.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” shouted Bagman, his voice amplified by his Sonorus charm. “ARE YOU READY?”

He began to shout and introduce the four Champions, beginning with the foreign visitors, and ending with Cedric and Harry, last. Drawn to the usual Gryffindor section, Harry could just make out a long poster reading _Harry Potter for Champion_. An especially large cheer erupted from them when his name was called.

The ball of anxiety loosened some more.

Bagman cancelled the charm and faced the four Champions, who were lined in a row facing him.

“Mr. Diggory, Mr. Potter,” began Bagman with a grin on his face, “As you both have the highest score, you will enter the maze first, followed by Mr. Krum and then Ms. Delacour. The object of this task is to navigate the maze, disarming or disabling anything that prevents you from moving forward. The ultimate prize is the TriWizard Cup, located somewhere in the maze.

“Once inside, you will not hear the crowd, or us you. Should you require any help, thus disqualifying yourself, you need only to send up red sparks and one of the Hogwarts professors, or Ministry employees here monitoring the Tournament, will retrieve you.

“Are there any questions?”

Harry shook his head, and saw the others do the same out of the corner of his eye, despite their fuzziness. Krum had a death-grip on his wand, his knuckles stark white while Fleur Delacour was doing an admirable job in trying to keep her shaking under control and hidden. Cedric was pale and breathing in through his nose heavily and quickly.

If only they knew...

Harry, for the most part, felt detached. Malfoy’s warnings and – although flawed – memory of the final task ensured that Harry knew what he was facing. Including the answer to the riddle the Sphinx would toss at him.

Bagman nodded, catching everyone’s eyes and Harry’s last. He lingered on the fourteen year old, almost seeming to want to say something but ultimately deciding against it as his face shuttered and his shoulders slumped, briefly.

“Very well,” he said, bringing his wand up. “So... on my mark, Harry and Cedric! Three – two – one—”

His wand erupted with a _bang_ and Cedric and Harry lunged into the maze entrance, cataloguing the incredibly tall, green walls of strange shrubbery, the eerie silence that engulfed them the minute they entered, and the odd, heavy quality of the silenced air raised the hairs at the back of Harry’s neck and sent a tingle down his spine.

Harry pulled out his wand, and muttered, lowly, “ _Lumos_.”

Beside him, Cedric did the same.

The entrance to the maze was dark, long and narrow, and for about fifty yards, remained straight until it branched into a fork – left and right.

Cedric and Harry paused, glancing between the two options. They looked at each other, and Harry eyed the left path, which he was closest to. Well, then.

“See you,” he offered gamely with a bit of a wobbly smile, and Cedric sent one back, disappearing down the right path. Just as Harry stepped onto the left, he heard another _bang_ off in the distance and realised that ten minutes had already passed, and Viktor was entering the maze. Soon, Fleur would be behind him.

            He sped up.

            Everything remained quiet, and Harry couldn’t help but feel cheated, but anxious, knowing Crouch was watching him and his progress, subtly nudging him in one direction or another.

            Harry continued down his path, turning right or left arbitrarily depending on the mood, nearly frustrated by how _bored_ he was. Where was the action? Something to test his skills on?

            Turning right another time, he sighed at another long, empty path.

            Movement, a rustling of leaves and scuffle of shoes, had his turning with his wand up and ready – and Cedric stumbled from the opposite path Harry turned from, the corner of his sleeve smoking and a wild look on his face.

            Harry lowered his wand and blinked.

            “Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” Cedric hissed angrily. “They’re enormous – I just barely got away!”

            Harry mentally noted not to take that path.

            Cedric darted through a newly made hole in the maze, and Harry was once again alone, half-wondering what just happened – had Cedric really just appeared to tell him about the Skrewts?

            With a shake of his head, the Boy-Who-Lived wandered forward and turned the corner – only to encounter the mind-numbing cold of a Dementor and the screams of his mother.

            Yes, Harry remembered Malfoy mentioning this: not a Dementor, but a boggart. Harry raised his wand and enounced clearly, “ _Riddikulus_ ,” picturing the boggart-dementor’s robe on fire and it running away, frightened. The boggart turned into a wisp of smoke, disappearing in a puff, leaving a free path.

            Malfoy had not remembered how many twists and turns Harry experienced, nor how long he had spent travelling, just what he encountered: boggart-dementor, gravity spell, the sphinx and then the Cup. His challenges were ridiculously easy.

            Uneasy at how he had yet to encounter that gravity spell, despite his many twists and turns, Harry paused down one path and scratched his head with his wandtip.

            “This is just not working,” he muttered, physically lifting and lowering his shoulders with his sigh. He laid his wand flat on his hand and muttered “Point Me,” hoping he was still going northeast.

            When the wand finally stopped spinning, facing the correct direction, Harry figured he could only go forward. He began to step forward, knowing Crouch would herd him in the right direction, when an earth-shattering feminine scream ripped through the maze.

            Harry immediately ducked and knelt in a crouch, his wand out and his head swivelling back and forth and he tried to pinpoint the scream. _Fleur!_

Seconds later, the scream tapered off, and Harry held his breath. The maze stilled, as if waiting for something monumental to occur.

            Harry held his breath, and cautiously stood, eyes roaming the sky. When no red sparks appeared after a few tense seconds, he frowned and began moving forward, in the direction he was planning on going. The scream had sounded like it was coming from ahead...

            His unease steadily grew with the lack of red sparks. Malfoy had not said what happened to the other Champions, other than Cedric’s attack by Krum. What had happened to Fleur? Harry knew she lived – she married Bill and had a daughter, one that was killed in front of Malfoy years in the future – but Hermione would be the first to remind him that things could easily change when tampering with time...

            A dark corner urged Harry right as the path cut sharply into a 90-degree angle, and Harry skidded to a sudden stop, his heart dropping.

            An enormous Blast-Ended Skrewt chattered its claws in front of him, its beady eyes focused on Harry with intensity.

            “Fuck,” the word escaped Harry unknowingly.

            It chattered once more, and then began scuttling forward. Harry ducked and rolled, shouting _“Stupefy!_ ” as he did so, but the spell bounced off its armour and only irritated the creature.

            One of its many legs caught the edge of Harry’s shirt, tearing it and rendering a long, bloody gash that had Harry crying out wordlessly. He fell to the ground on his back, the Skrewt hovering above him with its stinger unfurling from its back, poised to strike. Harry raised his wand and shouted, desperately, as fear coated his voice, at the underbelly of the creature, “ _IMPEDIMENTA_!”

            The skrewt haltered in its attack, but Harry knew it wasn’t permanent; he was lucky catching the underbelly. Frozen, but with its eyes tracking him, Harry scrambled to his feet and plunged into the path behind the skrewt, pushing himself forward as fast as he could with his heart beating loudly in his ears.

            When he felt he was far enough away, he slowed to a jog and then a walk, wheezing. The pain from the gash suddenly thrummed, reminding Harry of his narrow escape. The blood was sticky and starting to dry, an awkward feeling as he clenched and unclenched his left hand.

            A “point me” had Harry now going northwest, and something in him told him things would begin happening. Not a minute later, he heard the rustle of leaves, scuffling, and Cedric’s voice cutting sharply through the night, “What are you doing?”

            It came from the path running parallel to his.

            Cedric continued, his voice raising higher and higher. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

            Then:

            _“Crucio_.”

            The air burst with Cedric’s screams, and Harry, horrified but knowing it was going to happen, used his wand to burn a hole in the brush.

            _Thank you for the spell, Malfoy_ , he thought, briefly, as he pushed through the branches and sharp leaves, many of which left bloody marks and scrapes across his cheeks and hands.

            He pushed through and fell to his knees in front of a blank-eyed Krum, who turned at Harry’s arrival and moved his wand from the jerking and writhing Cedric to Harry himself.

            “Stupefy,” cried Harry first, stunning Krum and causing him to fall face-first in the dirt ground.

            “Are you all right?” asked Harry, rising to his feet and ambling over to Cedric, reaching out and helping him to his feet as well.

            The older teen had a dark, troubled look upon his face as his eyes focused on Krum’s fallen form. “Yeah,” he began.

            Harry raised a skeptical eyebrow.

            “Yeah. I don’t believe it... he crept up behind me. I heard him, I turned around, and he had his wand on me...” there was a disbelieving note to Cedric’s voice, one that warred with the anger growing in his clipped, terse words.

            He was still shaking when he looked at Harry.

            Harry, knowing that Krum was under the Imperious but Cedric didn’t know that, knew he had to say something. “Well... I didn’t think Krum would do that. Was _capable_ of that.”

            “So did I,” admitted Cedric, and the two stood in silence for a few moments. The gravity of the Tournament seemed physically to weigh on Cedric as he realised what he was involved in.

            Harry ventured, “Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?”

            “Yeah,” said Cedric, brows furrowing. “You don’t think...” his eyes travelled to Krum.

            Harry swallowed. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

            They fell silent again, before Harry mustered his Gryffindor courage and said, “Well, best send up sparks so they can collect him. He’s an arse, but we don’t want him eaten by a skewt on our conscience.”

            “He’ll deserve it,” muttered Cedric, but ever the Hufflepuff, he sent up sparks with his wand, where they hovered above the young man, marking his spot in the maze.

            And with another shared look, both continued in opposite directions. Harry knew they’d come across one another again soon.

            Harry encountered the sphinx, and like Malfoy said, it was the same riddle. Solving it quickly, Harry moved past the magical beast and with a quick turn, he was in the center of the maze and staring at the Cup.

            It was at the end of a long, narrow passage in a circular clearing. Several other passages met at the clearing, indicating Harry was not on the only path to the Cup. And, from behind his dirty glasses, Harry spotted a figure coming from one of those paths” Cedric.

            It was a race to see who could get to the clearing first; him, or Cedric. Harry knew he had to get there first, if only to stop him from being killed.

            But something else got to Cedric first, the shape coming quickly and silently up from behind him.

            “Cedric! Behind you!” shouted Harry, desperately.

            Cedric glanced back with just enough time to spare to see a large, lumbering spider nearly collide with him. Instead, the teen rolled out of the way and Harry began launching spell after spell at one of Hagrid’s “friends.”

            His left arm was practically useless, throbbing in pain with his heartbeat, but Harry stilled raised it as the spider bore down on him, pinchers tightening around his legs and lifting him in the air. Harry wriggled and struggled, managing to free one of his legs and kicked the pinchers hard, but the spider’s response was to clench tighter. A rippling pain shot through Harry as they broke the skin and muscle, crunching his bone.

            Through the haze, Harry thought, madly, _Expelliarmus_! and then fell on his neck and upper back as the spider dropped him with a fling, several feet away and at Cedric’s feet. Together, both teens shouted “stupefy!” at the same time, and the spider wobbled as it tipped over, destroying the hedge to their left, stunned.

            “Harry?” asked Cedric, “Are you okay?”

            Harry grimaced in pain, biting back a groan as he tried to stand on his injured leg. With his luck, Wormtail would go after his right arm, matching the two marks and all he’d have left was a good left leg.

            He could barely stand, but he tried. He went white with pain, eyes ahead on the Cup. He wouldn’t be able to stop Cedric now, for anything.

            “Go on, then,” he panted. “The Cup; it’s yours.”

            _Please, oh God, please_ , he thought wildly, _let him be Hufflepuff enough to say no. Let this work._

            “No,” the teen said, looking at Harry struggling to stand and remain standing. “You’ve saved me twice now, so you should take it.”

            Harry bit back a smile. It was working!

            He placed a frown on his face and shook his head. He needed Cedric to practically _force_ the Cup in Harry’s hands. “That’s not how it works. The one who reaches the Cup wins the most points and wins the Tournament. That will be you, not me. Not on this leg.”

            “No.”

            “Stop being so bloody noble. I wasn’t supposed to be in this anyway. It’s yours. Take it!”

            “No,” repeated Cedric, firmly. “You told me about the dragons. You saved the hostages in the second task, and I didn’t. You saved me twice here, just now. It’s yours, Harry. Take it. You deserve it.”

            Harry shook his head, and leaned what weight he could on the hardest part of the hedge he could find.

            “Harry,” repeated Cedric, firmly. “ _Take it_.”

            _Well, thank you,_ thought Harry, despite outwardly keeping his frowny face on. _This is exactly what I wanted._

Hesitantly, Harry stepped forward, once, twice, then ten steps, then fifteen, and then he was barely five steps from the Cup. It gleamed in the artificial light hovering above the stadium, casting shadows on its engravings and the names of previous winners.

            And then a small part of him, a very small, distant part, piped up: _he deserved this, not you. And you’re going to steal it from him. Yes, you’re saving his life, but at the cost of what?_

            _His life_? Repeated Harry mentally, outwardly scowling as he realised his conscience wrestled his more Slytherin side.

            “Both of us,” he sighed.

            “What?”

            “We’ll take it at the same time,” offered Harry. “That way, it’ll still be a Hogwarts victory. We can both tie for it.”

            A stunned look graced Cedric’s face. “Really?”

            “Yeah,” sighed Harry, another longing look at the Cup as he squashed his Slytherin voice. “We both helped each other, so we both should take it.”

            Then a grin split Cedric’s face and Harry realised that robbing Cedric of this, would’ve been just as bad as seeing him dead. He would just need to be on his toes when they arrived to stop Cedric from dying.

            “You’re on,” agreed the teen. “Come on!”

            And with that, he helped Harry to the Cup. They must have looked a sight, thought Harry, with him hopping on his good right leg and leaning heavily against the older boy, the angle of his left arm around Cedric’s shoulders breaking open the wound again.

            “On three?” asked Cedric, and Harry nodded. “One – two – three...”

            They touched the Cup, still with their arms around each other, and were yanked forward and away, far away from Hogwarts.

            They landed awkwardly, Harry instantly crumbling to the ground. The stadium and maze were long gone, revealing just dark, awkward tombstone shapes and an odd, flickering light just ahead.

            Instantly, Harry knew where they were.

            He struggled to stand, just as Cedric was muttering, “Where are we? D’you think this is part of the maze?” and footsteps began to move towards them.

            Cedric turned to see what Harry’s thoughts were, only to see the younger teen point his wand at him.

            “I know you won’t believe me,” began Harry grimly, “But I’m saving your life.”

            And before Cedric had time to open his mouth, he was flat on his back, unconscious.

**

            When Cedric came to, he opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, wondering who was shouting and why everything was so loud. Hot, angry heat rushed through him as he remembered Harry stunning him, knowing that the younger boy duped him and had the Cup while he was the second-place winner. That meant _nothing_.

            He blinked, and pushed up on one hand to raise his shoulders, and stopped. Physically stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped everything.

            Because Harry was standing, or as best as he could, in front of a tall, pale, noseless man. His lose grip held his wand aloft, and he was grinning as he said, in a high-pitched voice, “Now, Harry... bow.”

            And Harry did, unwillingly from what Cedric could see, and then he heard the chuckles and titters of the men who stood loosely in a circle around the two, their robes covering their bodies loosely but their masks identifying them instantly.

            _Death Eaters._

_You-Know-Who_.

            Cedric’s anger at Harry, for stunning him, betraying him, shrivelled. _“You won’t believe me,”_ he had said, _“But I’m saving your life.”_ Cedric could now believe the boy – but just how did he know?

            You-Know-Who and Harry were tossing spells back and forth, Harry shouting them and Voldemort casting silently, but they were constantly turning in circles and around one another as Harry dove behind a grave. In doing so, he caught Cedric’s eyes, and his mouth tightened in a straight line. His eyes, dark behind his glasses, darted behind Cedric to the Cup.

            And Cedric understood.

            _No,_ he mouthed.

            Harry nodded grimly, sparing the time to turn and shout, “stupefy!” he then faced Cedric again and mouthed, clearly, _go get help._

            Could he really leave Harry by himself fighting the evilest Dark Lord in their history? He was a kid! Cedric couldn’t do that – but then he remembered the whispers and rumours: the Philosopher’s Stone, the Chamber of Secrets – basilisks and werewolves, and his previous Defense professors disappearing at the end of each year.

            Maybe he _could_ handle himself.

            So, shamefully, Cedric nodded once at Harry, and burst into action, startling the nearest Death Eaters who had ignored him, and disappeared with the Cup leaving further pandemonium behind.

**

            Draco felt his insides twist as the Hogwarts Express pulled into King’s Cross. The end of the TriWizard Tournament was, in his mind, a small success as Cedric Diggory was alive, and his return with the Cup meant that many people knew of Voldemort’s return an entire year early. Harry had been badly wounded, almost more than previously, and Crouch had escaped when Cedric first appeared, but had been found and his story was enough to convince Fudge that Voldemort had truly returned.

            Theo was quiet beside him, darting glances at his from behind his large book, but he knew better than to say anything. What mental conversation Draco was having with himself was clearly torturous enough that Theo would not add to it by asking his incredibly, newly secretive friend, what he was thinking.

            The train rolled to a stop, steam billowing out of its stack and a whistle cutting sharply through the air. Around him in other compartments, Draco could hear students laughing and calling out their goodbye’s to one another. He slowly stood and charmed his trunk featherlight, and began to dredge his feet forward and off the carriage.

            He spotted his father right away, standing apart from the teeming mass of students, luggage, pets, and parents. Off on a far side, he spotted Granger and Potter leaving the carriage with the girl Weasley and Longbottom.

            “See you soon, Harry!”

            “Bye, Harry!”

            “We’ll speak soon, okay?”

            The voices flowed over one another as even Diggory stopped by to say a quiet thank you and goodbye to the Boy-Who-Lived.

            Draco couldn’t, of course; he couldn’t even send a letter to him this summer, warning him of Umbridge and what was to come (would she even still be their professor next year with Fudge agreeing Voldemort was back?).

            Instead, Draco met his father’s cold eyes, and shivered. What was he going to do now?

**

            The first night back at his relatives’ house had Harry succumbing to some very unusual dreams: dreams about spending Christmas with Sirius, a strange quill that cut into his hand with the words _I must not tell lies_ , with Snape flying across the Potions classroom floor, a strange pain in his head, and a statue of a wizard, elf, and centaur. More images of blood, of battles, and friends dying, reached him and his subconscious, where a voice, deeper, older, and weary said: _it’s all true. Believe, Harry. Believe._

            And when Harry Potter, soon-to-be-fifteen-years-old, opened his eyes the first morning back at the Dursley’s, he remembered.

            He remembered everything.

           

**

TBC...

 


End file.
